Competition Changes Everything
by Loafer
Summary: The biennial Tough Enough competition is coming up, and Shawn is determined to beat Lassiter. But it's for the wrong reasons, and tests more than one relationship. Lassiet by the end. You knew that, right? COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1: Tough Enough?

**Disclaimer**: la la la I own a stuffed flamingo, a mini lava lamp, and a photo of Nick Mancuso, but nothing whatsoever to do with _**psych**_.

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: Yet another Lawson227 suggestion. The biennial Tough Enough competition is coming up, and Shawn is determined to beat Lassiter. But it's for the wrong reasons, and tests more than one relationship. Possibly Lassiet by the end, possibly not.

**. . . . . .  
****. . . . .  
****. . . .  
****. . .**

"Oh, you can SO count me in for _that_," Shawn declared, puffing up a little.

Juliet followed his gaze to the bulletin board; it was the announcement of the biennial Tough Enough competition for Santa Barbara police, fire and rescue workers. "Are you eligible?"

"According to the fine print I am. Look—'guests may enter the competition if vouched for by city employees,' and you're a city employee." He gave her a funny look. "You _are_ a city employee, aren't you?"

"Shawn. Really?"

"Well, I don't know! They have weird rules about stuff like that. But you'll vouch for me, right?"

She was doubtful. "I will, but are you sure you're up for this? The competition is in two months, and _you'd_ need to start training, like, two months ago."

"What was that emphasis there? _I'd _need to start training? Jules, I'm good to go right _now_." He started doing jumping jacks, out of breath three seconds in. "Okay, so maybe I'll need a little practice. But I can do this."

"Why would you want to? Shawn, you're not exactly the most physical-fitness oriented guy around."

"One reason," he said triumphantly. "Just one. And there it is in black and white." He pointed to the section of the flyer which listed the top performers from two years earlier in the five age categories—21-27, 28-35, 36-43, 44-50, 55-62—and one of the names in the middle group was Carlton Lassiter.

That couldn't be good. Juliet frowned. "You weren't interested in this two years ago."

"I didn't know anything about it two years ago."

"It was all anyone talked about for weeks, before and after. What about two years before that?"

"Jules, you know I stay totally focused on casework at all times."

She stared at him. "I have to admit, Shawn, nobody throws out an authoritative flat-out lie like you do."

"Thanks!" He kissed her on the cheek. "Gotta go get some workout supplies. Gus will be so thrilled he gets to train me!"

Somehow she doubted this was true.

**. . . .  
****. . .**

Lassiter turned in his Tough Enough entry form and went back to his desk, remembering the last competition. He'd been pleasantly surprised to finish in the top three in his age group. He knew he had the speed for the various runs and dashes, but hadn't been as confident about the bench press and other weight-lifting-oriented activities. Certainly he could sling a suspect around and he was definitely an ace arm-wrestler, and nearly two decades of not enough sleep and way too much coffee had taught him how to maintain stamina, but he didn't have the sheer muscle bulk for some of the other tasks.

Coffee-drinking, he mused; that'd be an interesting competition, particularly on the detectives' squad.

Juliet came to his desk holding her own entry form. "Did you hear Shawn earlier, talking about Tough Enough?"

He gave her A Look. "Let me guess. He was mocking it, especially me, and suggested that a better competition would involve TV marathons and something to do with pineapples."

Juliet blinked. "Actually, not this time. He's planning to enter."

His eyebrows went up. "Why?"

She shrugged, but he detected something evasive in her expression. He'd seen a lot of that evasiveness since she took up with Spencer last year.

_I miss my partner… my friend._

He pressed on, because missing her was second-nature now, and too damn bad. "Does he understand it's… what's the word… oh, I know: _hard_?"

A faint smile—so faint he couldn't swear it was there at all—curved one corner of her mouth. "I tried to tell him. I… I think he has this idea he'll be trying to beat you."

Lassiter laughed. "Right. Seriously, why's he entering?"

"I _am_ serious. He wants to beat you."

Sometimes women said totally inexplicable things, and this was one of those times.

He decided to take the high road. "He'd better get busy, then."

After a pause, she nodded and went away.

**. . . .  
****. . .**

**:: One Month Later ::**

Shawn was sprawled on the sofa in the Psych office, and Gus leaned back in his chair.

Juliet, who had just come in with their power drinks, eyed the two of them. "You look rested."

"I am," Shawn agreed. "This is the best nap-taking sofa ever."

"Sofas don't take naps, Shawn," Gus corrected.

"I didn't say they did. What are you talking about?"

"You said 'nap-taking sofa.' 'Nap-taking' is an adjective phrase to describe the noun 'sofa,' but a sofa can't take naps. You meant it was the best sofa to take naps on."

Shawn glared at him. "First of all, how do you know sofas can't take naps? Second, you don't fool me, Mr. Language Person, not as long as you're over there callously ending sentences with prepositions."

Gus looked embarrassed.

Juliet cleared her throat. "For what it's worth, I was being sarcastic. You're supposed to be training for the competition, aren't you?"

"That's what _I_ said, but he refused."

"Saturday is _the_ day of rest, Gus. Everyone knows that."

"_Sunday_ is _the_ day of rest, Shawn. Everyone who's ever opened the Bible knows that."

Shawn yawned. "Saturday, Sunday, it's all the same. Like the calendar hasn't changed since Biblical times. How long ago was that, anyway—two, three hundred years?"

This rendered Gus speechless.

Juliet handed him one of the bottles. "Shawn, the competition is only a month away. You still haven't come anywhere close to meeting the records set by the competitors in your age group from the last time."

Gus scoffed. "He never will, either, unless they offer a Plant Your Ass On The Couch contest."

"Jules, two things. First, I only have to beat one guy, and that is _very_ do-able. Second, and this is the clincher, I am _clearly_ the underdog here, and it is a basic fact of life and nearly every feel-good movie ever made that the underdog always pulls through during a crisis."

Handing Shawn his drink, she said carefully, "I'm not sure voluntarily entering a contest you have no real chance of winning for the sole purpose of trouncing someone else qualifies you as an underdog."

"It qualifies him as an idiot," Gus muttered. "_I_ could do better than he could."

She knew he was right, but elected not to say so.

Shawn was already taking offense. "You've got it wrong. Yes, I _am_ in it to beat Lassie, I admit that. But don't you see? I _have_ to—for _me_. It's for _me_. It's to prove I'm man enough to out-physical-ize him as well as out-mental-ize him, which as you know I already do very well." He ignored Juliet's eyeroll, and she was tired of reminding him that Carlton was a pretty damn sharp guy. "Plus, if I'm going to chase after criminals whenever Gus tells me to, I have to get in shape."

"When I _tell_ you to? Hello? I'm pretty sure I'm the one running _away_ from trouble."

"That's fair, but the point is the same." He swung his legs off the sofa and faced Juliet, seemingly quite earnest. "It's important to me for a lot of reasons apart from merely rubbing Lassie's face in the cold smelly dirt of defeat."

"Though that's pretty important to him too," Gus amended.

"And mature as well," Juliet said with a sigh. "The thing is, if you don't train for this, you've got no shot at all. Even an underdog prepares for the battle."

While Gus nodded enthusiastically, Shawn thought it over. "You're right, of course." He sighed. "Okay, Gus. Let's go get sweaty. Jules, you want to watch?"

"Not when you put it like that, no."

He tilted his head and gave her a winsome smile. "But you're my girlfriend. My cheerleader. My Adrian. Yo?"

"No." She grinned back. "I have to go do my _own_ training. I just came to check up on your progress and deliver these drinks."

"What? You're in the competition too?"

"Shawn, honestly. You should take ginkgo biloba or something. Of course I'm in the competition, just like two years ago. I've been training for the last few weeks. Is there anything in your head which isn't…" _Stop. Be nice_. _This is your boyfriend._

"Himself?" Gus supplied, not so strong, and ducked the sofa pillow Shawn threw at him.

"Guess I'll have to train to beat both you _and_ Lassie." He stood up, stretching as if he'd already had a good workout.

"Forget that; we're in different age categories. Plus I'm a woman. And already in shape. Just get to work," she advised, making her way back to the door despite his wounded expression. "Make us all proud of how hard you're trying, okay?"

"I will," he promised. "Scout's honor."

**. . . .  
****. . .**

**:: Two Weeks Before Competition ::**

They were at a crime scene. Lassiter was studying the array of spent casings in the room—the victim was killed with one shot to the head, but at least twelve shots had been fired—and trying to figure out whether the murder might have been accidental.

Spencer stood at the edge of the room with Guster. They hadn't been asked to come in, but then they seldom waited for an invitation. Since Henry's retirement, they'd been bolder about horning in, and in Lassiter's opinion, Juliet had been far too lenient in allowing their access.

It wasn't that Spencer couldn't crack the cases—he usually could—but unchecked by the dampening force of Henry's will, the sheer number of disruptions and complaints tripled. Vick was trying her best to get the liaison's position filled, but in the meantime, havoc was the norm.

Lassiter—who used to be pretty good at it, if he did say so himself—had just about quit trying to rein them in. He simply stepped away when Spencer got out of hand, and left it to Juliet. The bozo was her _personal_ bozo, so he considered him her responsibility now.

This earned him more than a few glares, but as time passed, he was less sympathetic. Their partnership and friendship was cracking, and he knew it, and he hated it, but somehow there was a certain inevitability about the whole sinking ship: as long as she was blind to how doomed her relationship with Spencer was, there was nothing he could do but watch and be regretful.

Spencer made a few mad proclamations about the victim and unknown shooter, inspected the contents of the refrigerator, argued with Gus about the pronunciation of 'transient' and then got directly in Lassiter's path.

"So," he challenged.

Lassiter raised one eyebrow. "What?"

"You ready for me?"

"No one's ever ready for you, Spencer, and before you ask, that's not a compliment." He moved past him, but Spencer kept up.

"I take it as one anyway. I'm talking about Tough Enough. Are you? Tough enough? Tougher than me, even?"

Lassiter frowned. "Are you serious?"

Spencer waved Gus over. "Of course I'm serious, and my personal trainer here can attest to my readiness."

Gus shook his head. "I cannot attest to that."

"He can also attest to the certainty that I am going to leave you weeping in my dust," Spencer went on cockily.

"I cannot attest to that either," Gus insisted.

Lassiter jerked his head at Gus, as what he'd said finally got through to Spencer. "Sounds like your _trainer_ doesn't think you're ready."

"Gus! Don't turn on me when I need you most. This—right here, right now—is the mandatory pre-contest hero-villain encounter where the competitors challenge each other and amp up the psychological stakes!"

Juliet joined them, taking off her rubber gloves. "Which are you, Shawn, the hero or the villain?"

Lassiter couldn't hide his faint smirk. "I'm not challenging you, Spencer. I don't care if you're in the contest or not." He really didn't. It _would_ be incredibly annoying if Spencer bested him in so much as emptying a dishwasher, but only because Spencer would crow about it for freaking ever.

Spencer was at a loss. "But Lassie, look. You're supposed to mock me now. You're supposed to show the fates all the reasons you're the bad guy and I'm the underdog and the underdog always wins."

In unison, Juliet and Gus said, "He's not the bad guy."

Juliet added, "Shawn…" but then trailed off. To Lassiter, her expression indicated _don't-_make_-me-shut-you-down-in-public. _

Gus supplied the rest. "You can't beat Lassiter. You probably can't beat anyone in that competition."

Now Spencer was horrified, backing away, hands in the air. "O. M. G.! We've suddenly turned a corner into the Hero Gets Eaten By His Own Team In Front Of The Villain chapter! Look, I'm _going_ to win. I _have_ to win. _Logic_ says I'll win. I'm younger, I want it more, and I've got boyish charm and cussedness!"

Lassiter said nothing. Any word out of his mouth would be Very Very Very Extremely Very Mondo Bad.

Juliet seemed to be biting her lip to keep quiet.

Gus sighed. "Look. Lassiter's got seven years on you, true, but you outweigh him by a long shot and you don't take care of yourself. He can run faster, he can fight better; hell, he can stay awake longer. And cussedness is what _he_ has, Shawn. _You've_ only got petulance."

Juliet's eyes went wide, and Lassiter was surprised himself, but it was Spencer who was the most shocked—and clearly hurt.

"Fine," he said quietly. "I see how it is, naysayers. Looks like the psychological stakes got amped up by my _own_ side." He glared at Lassiter. "I'll see you in two weeks. But don't bother looking behind you, buddy, because I'm only ever going to be in front."

He stalked off, Gus trailing after, and Lassiter met Juliet's dark-blue gaze impassively.

There was no way he was going down that conversational path with her, and he knew damned well she didn't really want him to.

"So. ID on the victim yet?"

**. . . .  
****. . .**

**:: Four Days Before Competition ::**

Juliet was tired. She'd been pushing herself to get ready for Tough Enough, and their case load at the moment was pretty grueling to boot.

Between work and prep and Shawn obsessing over the competition, she was just about ready to tell Vick she needed a month off, stat. Walk away clean from all of it.

_Yes, including the boyfriend. _

Shawn had also been pushing himself, more than she'd ever seen before, but despite her innate loyalty and optimism (and not just because she was dating him), he really would have to be the recipient of The Underdog Miracle to do at all well.

He could, though, she reasoned. He might not beat Carlton at his best—and Carlton _was_ at his best; he'd been working hard for two months to get ready—but he could do well enough, if he stayed the course, and never mind the cliché. He'd been genuinely stunned by what Gus said to him—and her failure to defend him—and it seemed to be a motivator beyond merely doing better than Carlton.

There was one thing she could do for him, though, and it niggled away at her brain off and on every day. She didn't want to do it. She wasn't sure it would work. But if anything was going to work, the thing she didn't want to do would… do it.

The alternative—his crushing defeat? depression for months? sulkiness? outright whininess?—was difficult to envision, and it would affect far too many people, because Shawn, bless his heart, was not one to keep his miseries private.

Another cup of coffee, and she braced herself. Time to do what The Good Girlfriend would do.

Carlton was at his desk, resting his head on his hand, staring blankly at his laptop screen. His sleeves were rolled up and his tie loose, the top buttons of his shirt undone, and she needed to stick to the reason she was there.

He mused, "These lab results don't make any sense. Are we _positive_ Woody's not on drugs?"

"I've never been positive of that," she admitted, sitting in the chair next to his desk and offering him the cup of coffee she'd prepared as an advance peace offering.

Carlton eyed her, his vivid blue eyes only half-suspicious.

For a moment this made her rather sad. Time was, he'd only have said thanks appreciatively as he took the cup. These days, he probably thought he had to wonder about her motives, and that was entirely her fault.

Might as well launch in. "I have a really big favor to ask you. Humongous, even. Ginormous. I'm not sure I've ever asked you for anything this big before. I… it's… well, I—"

"Just ask," he broke in with the hint of a smile, and she was sad again, because she didn't get to see that very often anymore.

"It's about Tough Enough."

Instantly wary, he took a sip of the coffee and raised one eyebrow for her to continue.

Juliet could already feel her insides roiling. "Would you consider… easing up?"

Both dark eyebrows were up now. "On what?"

"On Shawn." It was almost a murmur, and he leaned forward as if to hear her better. _Dammit, girl, you're not in a library_. "Would you ease up on Shawn?"

Carlton was surprised and confused. "What are you talking about? I haven't said anything to him at all about it, even when he got in my face last week. Has he said I've been giving him a hard time? Because that's a lie."

"No, nothing like that. No." She rubbed her temple distractedly. "I mean… ease up during…"

Crap, she couldn't say it.

_Because you _shouldn't_ say it. This man is your partner and friend and you should not ask this of him._

But Carlton got it anyway, and if his eyebrows were high before, they damn near leapt off his forehead now. "You want me to… hell, O'Hara, are you asking me to pull my punches during the competition?"

Yeah, she felt sick. "Well…"

"_Why_? Why in the _hell_ would you ask me that?"

For a second, stunned by the ferocity of his question, she honestly had no idea. "It's just you're so competitive, and—"

"Hell yeah I am," he spat, "and so are you! You think he's not—"

"I meant both of you!" she interrupted. "You're both competitive, and I know how much this means to him, and if he loses big it's going to mess him up and we'll all have to pick up the pieces, probably for months. But you're stronger, Carlton, and you don't need a win like he does, or at least not in the same way."

His eyes were the color of the sea as the storm of the century was whipping up the waves. "I don't need a _win_ at all," he said flatly. "I need to do well because it's kind of my job. And yours. We have to be at the top of our game both mentally and physically and the two go hand in hand. I've participated in Tough Enough every time because it's my gauge of what I'm capable of. I don't do it _for_ anyone else, _because_ of anyone else, or on anyone else's agenda."

"I know," she said miserably. "It's just he's got his heart set on this, and if there's any way at all you can... do this… for me, well, I…" She had to stop. She knew she'd made a huge mistake, and wondered if asking for his wastebasket so she could retch into it would be crossing yet another line.

He had picked up a pen while she was speaking, and now he threw it down on the desk with enough force to make it bounce off and skitter off the edge to the floor. It was the angriest she'd ever seen him, and his words were little pinpricks of steel. "You've lost your mind, haven't you. You've totally subjugated yourself to his will."

"_What_?" She heard the screech in her tone.

"I warned you awhile back about not following Spencer down the rabbit hole, but it looks to me like you've settled in pretty well over there in Bunnyland." He was icy.

In contrast, Juliet felt heat rising to her face, but Carlton wasn't done.

"Obviously things have changed between us since you took up with him. We don't have the same partnership anymore, and we certainly don't have the same friendship. But if you think I'm going to pull back and not do my best, for myself—for my _job_—and for the department, just so your narcissistic, immature, manipulative bully of a boyfriend can have his self-serving way again, then…" he paused, but his blue eyes were fierce and he was clearly struggling for control. "Then you're an _idiot_, O'Hara."

Juliet felt slapped, and cold, and stunned.

Carlton went on brusquely, "I expect I'll apologize for saying that later, but right now, it's what I think. You're an idiot." He let out a breath, his own color high. "Now I don't want to talk about this damned crap anymore, so I suggest we both get back to work." He stood up and strode down the hallway with the casefile, and Juliet sat stunned in the chair.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	2. Chapter 2: Ice Cream Analysis

**CHAPTER TWO**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet O'Hara was a brave woman. She was an experienced police detective, good with a service weapon and able to handle herself in serious life-or-death situations with relative aplomb. She'd arrested murderers, rapists and people who didn't vote her way.

But she simply couldn't face going to work on Wednesday, not after what Carlton said to her.

She called in sick, claimed a stomach bug, made sounds of discomfort, and stayed home to wallow.

Frankly, there seemed to be an awful lot to wallow about.

She was angry he'd told her off like that, furious and hurt to have been called an idiot by her _partner_. For him to have taken such umbrage at her simple attempt to ask for a favor on her boyfriend's behalf was egregiously unfair and insulting. Yes. Certainly it was. _Yes_.

There was only one problem.

She had it coming.

Every bit of it.

She should _never_ have asked, and she _was_ an idiot.

Worse than this… and most painful… was his admission that their partnership and friendship had deteriorated.

Carlton didn't much like to talk about personal matters and he was uncomfortable with discussion of their friendship—he preferred to just let it _be_—and he was also male and thus also predisposed to shy away from even _thinking_ of these things.

But he saw it. He knew it. He obviously felt it, and he—the taciturn _man_—had been the one who put it out there in the open.

And somehow, without him even so much as hinting, she knew it was pretty much all her fault. She'd put Shawn first—which wasn't wrong if one's personal life was separate from work, but when the two were intertwined, there had to be boundaries and priorities. At work, her partner should have always come first, and if she'd held up her end of the deal, then their friendship would never have suffered at all.

Apart from the issue of her boyfriend being Shawn Spencer in _particular_.

Juliet wondered if Carlton had any idea how much their friendship meant to her. She'd gone from nearly revering/fearing him when she first started to being his equal and dyed-in-the-wool partner and then, amazingly, someone he trusted on a personal level beyond that partnership. She valued the progression from stranger to friend enormously and considered the end result the best possible thing. It was a gift, one he probably didn't even know was important, let alone valuable.

Yes, sometimes she wanted to bash him with a stapler. She was sure he felt the same way about her occasionally. _(Probably not as often.)_

But…

She wallowed.

Shawn was on her mind too, along with the things Carlton had said about him.

Digging into a half-gallon—not some namby-pamby 48-ouncer but a real half-gallon—of chocolate peanut butter mocha swirl ice cream, Juliet let the words roll through her mind again.

"... _so your narcissistic, immature, manipulative bully of a boyfriend can have his self-serving way..."_

If she took the time to disassemble and reassemble her weapon to think this through, she'd miss out on the ice cream, so she'd have to wing it sans Glock.

_Narcissistic_… well, the late Dr. Elliot at the mental hospital had suggested this himself. (Not that anyone needed it said, but the medical degree and expertise did sort of make it official.)

_Immature_. Uh… Juliet had another spoonful of ice cream. Right. Their weekend getaway and his public histrionics came to mind, but she didn't want to relive that yet.

_Manipulative_. She didn't like to think of _herself_ as manipulate-able, but she'd seen him go to work on Gus and his father numerous times, and they should have been the least likely to succumb given their years of experience with him. Chances were, and she did not intend to consider this possibility today either, she'd let herself be manipulated too.

(... _like about_ _your father? or any time Shawn talked you into giving up case information without actually having been hired first? or worse, talked you in to doing anything _at all_ behind your partner's back?..._)

_Bully_. This one was going to require more ice cream to process.

Then again, maybe not, because yeah, dammit. He _was_ a bully. He'd been trying to bully Carlton for years, by mocking his name, his ears and even his slim build. If she put aside their mutual insults re: intelligence, she could find relatively few times Carlton had attacked Shawn purely on physical characteristics.

But Shawn was all about attacking on that level—the playground level.

The level which said _I'm not above mocking you for things beyond your control, because it empowers me. _

The _nasty_ level.

And that was just Carlton. The things he said to Gus and his father were even worse.

_(... don't forget how he treated you when he took on the Thane Woodson case, openly mocking you for having arrested the man, carrying on as if you were a bad cop and he alone could make things right...)_

She'd run out of ice cream if she kept this up.

So—on the flip side, the reasons she cared about him: he was funny, clever, persistent, at times very sweet, willing to lend a hand (so long as it didn't interfere with his TV or food consumption schedule or actually involved much manual labor).

(... _motorcycle, anyone?_ "_You never have to take anyone to the airport, you certainly don't have to help anyone move_...").

He could focus when it was crucial, he was intensely loyal to Gus and his father _and_ to her—he'd even helped prove Carlton innocent of murder charges.

He wasn't a bad person at all. Sometimes he was even a pretty good boyfriend, and she didn't doubt he cared for her deeply.

But… he _was_ also all those unpleasant things Carlton had given name to, and she couldn't fault him for saying any of them. He'd been Shawn's target for too many years.

(... _and what did you do to help him?_...)

Clearly, she would need a hell of a lot more ice cream.

Especially if she was going to avoid dealing with the underlying question: why _was_ she with Shawn?

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Lassiter texted Juliet with some trepidation Thursday morning, but it was only business, to say that if she was coming in, she should report to a crime scene which was part three-car pile-up, part homicide.

She texted back a simple "OK" and met him on site a little while later.

He knew he had to apologize to her but he wasn't ready, and by her demeanor, she wasn't ready to hear anything from him at all beyond "there's the body."

The cars had collided at a near-major intersection, but one of the drivers was dead from a gunshot wound. The car windows were down, and the initial trajectory analysis placed the bullet as having come from the gas station at the corner, which upon investigation, had just been robbed, with the clerk out cold behind the counter.

"Signs of a struggle, smashed window, bullet casings. It's a wonder the clerk wasn't shot." Odd, that. He took a closer look at the clerk's blunt force trauma head wound… self-inflicted?

"So you think a shot went wild out the window and killed the driver, which caused the other cars to crash?"

Lassiter shrugged. "First look says so. What do you think?"

Juliet looked around, eyed the clerk as the EMTs worked on him, and gave Lassiter a glance. She was thinking what he was thinking, so at least that part of their partnership was still in force.

He would miss her when she was gone. Because no way was she not requesting a new partner after what he said to her—and never mind that he _did_ think she was an idiot about Spencer; it was ultimately her call, her choice, her life and not any of his damned business. He would really miss her sunny disposition, her quiet way of calming him down, her laughter, her lovely dark-blue eyes, her temptingly-touchable honey-gold hair, her…

_Do your job, moron._

Pulling one of the EMTs aside, he asked him to pay special attention to the wound and offer an opinion as to whether the clerk could have bonked himself and faked unconsciousness.

Back outside, they separated from each other, each working different parts of the scene, and nothing was unusual about that, so he allowed himself to hope this eye of the storm was a mighty big eye.

Half their team got called away for another emergency, so there was only work and no time for talk the rest of the morning. Since they'd arrived in separate cars, they didn't have to be alone together on the way back to the station either.

Once there, Juliet was immediately pulled away by Chief Vick to finish up on a time-sensitive case, and Lassiter finally relaxed. They could get through today and then tomorrow, have the stupid competition on Saturday, and Monday they could either have it out once and for all, or agree to pretend it never happened.

Unless of course Spencer won in any category at all, or for that matter lost big in any category. He'd be insufferable either way. Only the flavor of his insufferability would change.

Looking up the competition regulations again to be sure Spencer was really eligible, he wondered how in the hell to make any of this simply go away.

**. . . .**

**. . . **

Shawn hadn't been around for the last few days. Juliet ran into Gus at Starbucks Friday morning, and he told her Shawn was alternately getting ready for Tough Enough and sulking about having to get ready for Tough Enough.

When she asked him straight-up how he thought Shawn would do, his answer was simple and a bit sad: "I think he won't embarrass himself, but that's all I can commit to."

But would not embarrassing himself be enough for Shawn?

Friday with Carlton was… okay. They worked separate angles on the collision/robbery case—the Chief's suggestion, because the Mayor's office was screaming about safety in the streets—to get it closed faster, and when they had to interact, it was business only. Civil, but business. Needless to say, there were no shared coffee or lunch breaks.

It was killing her, though, this new distance added to the previous distance, and all she could think was that no matter how Tough Enough turned out, the aftermath would be long and drawn-out and painful.

_I miss him now... how much worse will it get? He'll ask for a new partner, and he'll be better off, and I am going to miss those blue eyes—those amazing and sometimes-smiling-just-for-_me_ Irish blue eyes—way the hell too much._

_(... that's not all you'll miss, dum-dum...)_

She considered herself a resourceful woman with plenty of ideas about how to smooth personal interactions and upsets, but this was a problem she simply wasn't sure how to solve. Both of the key men in her life were aggravated with her, both of them were pig-headed, and one of them was cruisin' for a bruisin' in a very public way.

In the end, there seemed to be only one option.

After work, she went to see Shawn. She had seldom been to his place; he preferred to lounge at the Psych office, her apartment or Gus' place (which was probably a symptom of his need to be independent as long as possible; the chaos surrounding Henry's shooting and recovery had put paid to any talk of him moving in) (just as well, in retrospect; she could hardly imagine what this Tough Enough prep would have been like if they were sharing living space).

(... _and that's another clue, Einstein-ette_...)

She did call first, and he started to say he'd meet her somewhere, but she pressed and assured him it wouldn't take long.

He was sweaty, and it looked legit, instead of that he'd merely splashed water on his face and shirt. He'd lost a little weight, or maybe his hair was merely less coiffed than usual, but he did look a bit different.

"Hey, Jules, come on in."

She suddenly didn't want to. He kissed her lightly as she passed, and she went only as far as the first chair, settling in as if she were perfectly comfortable.

Which she was not.

"What's up?" Shawn inquired, eyeing her suspiciously.

"I want you to withdraw from the competition."

Pause.

He tilted his head. "Say what?"

She braced herself. "I want you to withdraw from the competition tomorrow. You can say you twisted your ankle in training, or developed a hernia; I don't care. But you should withdraw."

Shawn stared at her.

It was hard to tell sometimes what color his eyes were; usually they were hazel but sometimes they were more green or a sort of indiscriminate blue. Right now they were angry and the color really didn't matter.

"What the _hell_ are you talking about?"

Juliet sighed. "Shawn, this isn't going to go well and you know it. You're going up against people who _have_ to stay in pretty good shape for their jobs and you're coming from a position of not being in shape at all. You… well, you've enjoyed a… rather sedentary lifestyle the past few years, and it shows, and a month of prep isn't really enough."

"So I shouldn't even try? What kind of message is that? What kind of support is that? Have you gone crazy?"

"No. No, I haven't." _Okay, maybe I have._ "Look, the truth is, no matter how it goes tomorrow, you don't handle either failure _or_ success well."

Shawn paced the room, anger in every step. "Oh, really? Is that so? I notice you put failure first there, Jules. The expression is 'success or failure,' not 'failure or success.' Even when you speak hypothetically, you assume I'm going to bomb tomorrow."

"No… no, Shawn, you don't get it. It doesn't actually matter how well you do or don't do. You're either going to be an jerk about success, or a brat about failure, and none of us—Carlton especially—should have to put up with that."

"Hey! I've worked my ass off for two long months—"

"_One_ month," she interjected.

"One month, fine, whatever. I've worked for this. I'm not going to bomb. Okay, so I don't expect to win at everything and I don't even necessarily think I'm going to beat Lassie at anything but I'm in it now, you get it? You want me to quit the night before the competition because you don't want to deal with how it plays out?"

_Well, yeah, sort of._

"It's more than that. If you'd get past your own ego, you could see what I mean." She got up, arms folded, tense for both of them. "You _only_ wanted to do this so you could crush Carlton, and that was wrong. It was the wrong motive and the wrong way of thinking. Now that you're committed to it and it turns out to be hard, you're only staying in out of sheer stubbornness. But what's this for? I mean, what are you really trying to accomplish?"

He glared at her. "I'm trying to compete. I'm trying to do my best. Yeah, beating Lassie would be great but you don't get it, Jules: this is what guys do. We try to best each other because that's what guys do even if what we're besting each other at is completely pointless and stupid."

"Because men are stupid," she said dryly.

"Yeah, but that's _our_ thing, and you women can't touch that."

"We don't _want_ to touch that. We just want it to stop. And there's no competition between you two in this case, because you're the only one trying to rumble. Carlton entered because he always enters and if he does better than you it's because he's better than you, not because he's actively trying to humiliate you."

Another long pause, this one colder. "Because he's _better_ than me?"

Juliet sighed. "That's not what I meant. I meant if he does better, he does better. He won't be doing better for the sole purpose of—what did you say last month?—rubbing your face in the 'cold smelly dirt of defeat'?"

"My goals changed," he snapped. "And you know what? I think we're done talking. I'm showing up tomorrow and I'm doing my best and you can suck it."

Her eyebrows went up.

He had the grace to look ashamed. "Sorry. It's what I would have said to Gus."

"I understand," she said coolly. "People get us mixed up all the time." Turning for the door, she added, "I _do_ wish you well tomorrow, Shawn, and I know you _have_ worked hard."

Shawn wasn't able to muster up even a grudging 'thanks,' but she couldn't really blame him. Nor was she surprised that he failed to wish her well in her own Tough Enough endeavors. He'd probably completely forgotten she was in the competition herself.

_(... Narcissist...)_

_Shut up, you._

The door closed behind her with a louder-than-necessary thwack, and she went back to her Beetle sure she had made everything that much worse.

_Good job, O'Hara. Alienate the partner and best friend, piss off the boyfriend… maybe tomorrow you can knock down some bleachers and injure small children to complete the Goin' To Hell In A Handbasket Trifecta_.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Morning.

Juliet was as ready as she could be. She thought she'd do well in the dashes and obstacle course, was pretty confident about the rope climb and swim, and hoped not to shame her family with the shot put.

She was also dreading the whole thing. The only advantage to participating was she wouldn't have the opportunity to watch all of the 'battles' between Shawn and Carlton. If she didn't _see_ the carnage it wouldn't be as painful, right?

_(... remember how unbelievably and embarrassingly childish Shawn was in that softball game when his father called him out... "run away, run away!")_

When she got to the competition site, where at least 80 participants were expected beyond the crowd of family, friends and other spectators, she scanned the fields for the two men who were most on her mind.

Shawn: with Gus, under a tree knocking back Gatorade before he even needed it, headband lifted straight from an '80s movie, Spandex... _oh no, not Spandex... oh honey_... she had to look away.

This brought Carlton into her line of sight, and even at twenty yards his blue eyes were vivid, lit by energy and determination. He was in sweats and a tee and he looked good (_he always looks good_) and she was proud of him, knowing he was going to do his best simply because that was the thing to do.

_(... aren't you supposed to be proud of Shawn for trying?...)_

_Hey_, she argued with the parenthetical voice, _are you the good witch or the bad witch? Of course I'm proud of him for trying and I really DO hope he does well today. But dammit, he needs to work for it. He needs to know it's hard for _everyone_ and can't be easy for him just because it interests him right this second!_

Carlton nodded at her, a faint smile on his lean face, and gave her the peace sign, which was probably all the truce they were going to manage today.

The first event was the 100-yard dash, each age division in turn.

Juliet came in second for her group of ten, and Shawn loped over to give her a hearty congratulations. She was too out of breath to talk to him much, and he couldn't linger because the 36-43 age group was ready to go.

Agitated far too much for something as simple as watching a short run, she stood where she could see all the members of the group gathering on the starting line.

But to her puzzlement, Carlton wasn't among them.

She scanned the faces again—surely he would stand out for his height alone—but he wasn't there.

For one second she thought he might have withdrawn… but no, because she'd already seen him. Admired his lean frame. Thought he was—_stop it_.

_Where the hell are you, Carlton?_

Shawn seemed to be looking for him too, leaning in and out of the line as if searching.

"Carlton," she murmured, still surveying, hoping maybe he was just late coming out of the locker area.

"Yes?" he answered from behind her.

Juliet whirled. "Oh my God. Carlton, why aren't you on the field?"

He held a bottle of water, and up close, his eyes seemed to be drawing blue from the sky itself. "It's not my group. Congratulations on your race, O'Hara."

"Thanks, but... what do you mean it's not your group? It's 36-43, and you're 43, so—"

Carlton interrupted, but somehow it wasn't rude at all. "I looked at the contestant list. The people closest to my age in that group were all 41 or younger. The next group has quite a few 44-year-olds. I asked the organizers if they'd consider having me compete against people closer to my age."

She stared at him, absolutely unable to decide what this meant except... in his way... he had done this for her.

Sure, maybe it would also make things easier for him regarding Shawn, but... _dear God, he had done this thing for _her_._

Juliet smiled, and felt misty and a hell of a lot like hugging him. And kissing him._ And not stopping._

But his return smile now was cooler than the warmth in his eyes would suggest. "You should be watching Spencer now, shouldn't you?"

He walked away, and Juliet tried to remember how to breathe.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	3. Chapter 3: And They're Off

**CHAPTER THREE**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Lassiter moved out of Juliet's line of sight; he didn't want to have an excuse to see her and it was a bonus that she might not be able to see him.

He couldn't afford for her to suss out how hard it was to walk away at all. She was glowing with good health, with post-race rosy beauty, and incidentally looking damned good in her green shorts and tee. He never minded a glimpse of her tanned legs, that was for sure.

_Attention on the _field_, perv._

Spencer hadn't spotted him yet and either thought he'd chickened out or decided it didn't matter. He started out well in the race, but lost his stride two-thirds of the way through and finished fourth—but he'd had to about to kill himself to make it; it was evident in how long it took him to recover, even with Gus running up to water him down.

No time to dwell; Lassiter's group was up next, and he took his place at the start line. From this moment on, he would not watch anything Spencer did, nor listen to anyone talk about results from that age group.

Tough Enough was about whether _he_ was tough enough—for himself and his job.

Yeah, right.

Like his willpower was _that_ strong.

When he wasn't warming up for the next event, Lassiter watched both Juliet and Spencer.

He was satisfied that overall he was doing better than the latter, and really didn't mind how Juliet did compared to his own results because first of all, she was twelve years younger and besides that, she was… in a word… hot. Merely watching her move in those shorts was distracting enough so that he had to look away a few times. But she did well, taking a number of second-place prizes, and he was proud of her, no matter what became of their partnership.

Spencer came in third for a couple of tests, and second for one, and Lassiter tried not to over-analyze a theory that he got that far because the guy who should have gotten second slipped off the chin-up bar and tumbled backward into the guy who should have gotten third place, who had been standing too close waiting for his turn, and both went down hard and came up swinging, getting them both disqualified and clearing the field for Spencer.

But the man was struggling. That much was obvious. Every success was hard-won—and that, Lassiter thought, was really how it should be. To his credit, he stayed away from the others except Gus, and didn't preen or prance or draw attention to himself. Spencer was in the zone as much as it was possible for him to be, and certainly more than Lassiter had ever witnessed.

His own results were satisfying: first place in the 100-yard dash, and damn straight; after years of chasing criminals he knew he was fast enough to take that honor.

Gus approached once and asked far too casually why he was competing in a different age group. Lassiter answered politely, and told him to congratulate Spencer on his second-place honor. Gus' eyes got big and he said he would and then he hurried away as if he thought Lassiter might take it back.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The last event before the lunch break was the 100-yard swim.

Juliet was wearing a modest, practical one-piece dark blue suit, and lined up with the others at the edge of the pool. She scanned the onlookers for her men… _her men_… and couldn't see Shawn, but Carlton was there, and for a moment she was sure his blue gaze was on her body, her legs, her…

She should have been embarrassed or annoyed but she simply wasn't. Today she didn't mind one damned bit if her partner found her attractive, because she sure as hell found him attractive.

(… _not just today_…)

And there was nothing wrong with that, was there? A woman could have a boyfriend and still think another man was attractive. It didn't mean she was going to do anything about it. It didn't mean he'd been on her mind a lot lately because he was her best friend and she missed him. It was only a coincidence that he'd done something nice for her today and now she couldn't imagine how she'd let this distance between them happen at all. It didn't mean she was obsessing over him or anything.

_(… yawn …)_

However, she'd been watching him compete more than she'd watched Shawn. It shouldn't have been so easy to admit that to herself, but it was true. Shame on her. Shawn was giving it everything he had but a month's worth of preparation wasn't enough and he was struggling. She was glad for him that he usually ended up in the top five, and especially relieved he wasn't being a bad sport about it.

Carlton had already changed into his swim trunks, though his tee was still on. His legs were long and lean like the rest of him, pale perhaps, but that wouldn't matter in bed.

_Oh my God_, her rational mind shrieked. _That wouldn't matter in bed? What the HELL?_

_(… oh, stuff it…)_

_Swim, you moron girl. Just swim. Cold water on your stupid crazy head can only help_.

Her self-aggravation drove her to test all her limits, and although she hadn't expected to do very well in this test, she came in second, almost flinging herself to the edge of the pool in the last few moments, utterly determined to prove she could focus on something less prurient than her sudden interest in Carlton.

_(… sudden your ass…)_

A strong hand grasped her forearm and helped pull her out of the water, and dripping wet she was suddenly right in front of the object of her recent thoughts.

"You did great, O'Hara!" Carlton handed her a towel, smiling at her far more naturally than when they'd last met. "You're a credit to the department."

"So are you," she managed, drying her face, hoping to hide the blush, because something about standing before him and his swim trunks while she wore this wet bathing suit made her feel utterly naked. "I think Vick might even let us go back to work on Monday."

Aware of being _aware_, and meeting his deep blue gaze, she held the towel at chest-level because he really did not need to see anything which would make him wonder just exactly how cold she was.

_(… down, girls, down…)_

_Oh, get control already._

She looked down at his legs and said lightly, "Nice gams ya got there, partner."

Carlton actually blushed, which was satisfying; no reason she should be alone in embarrassment. "Came with the torso," he said noncommittally. "They don't get out much."

"Shame." She turned toward the pool rather than see how he reacted.

His voice was low, meant only for her ears. "They're not as nice as yours, O'Hara. I'll catch up later."

Turning back rapidly, she was in time to see him retreating, and she needed to get out of the way herself since Shawn's group was ready to compete.

Shawn nodded when she patted him on the arm in passing, but said nothing. Just as well. She herself was only capable of gibberish at the moment.

This situation did not improve.

_He admitted he likes my legs._

She dutifully watched Shawn swim. He didn't do well; Gus told her he hadn't spent any time at all preparing for this test, believing having grown up by the ocean was prep enough. He was also obviously tired and losing his oomph with each test.

The towel was again her friend when Carlton's group got up to the edge of the pool. Carlton had cast off his tee and while he was hardly muscle-bound, he was possessed of a strong slim build and enough chest hair to make her want to…

_Yeah. Hold the towel tighter._

He was graceful to watch, his long legs and arms propelling him through the water at an impressive speed. She wondered where he practiced. She wished she had suggested training together in the past two months. Swimming with him would have been fun.

_Towel._

He came in first and she realized she was whooping along with everyone else; he found her in the crowd and grinned before being pulled away out of her sight, and she marched into the locker room to dry off and change and put these unaccountable images and thoughts out of her head.

Why was she thinking like this at all? The man thought she was an idiot. She'd risked what was left of their partnership by asking him for an impossibly selfish favor, and to make it worse, she'd turned around and asked Shawn for something equally impossibly selfish, and there was no room in all this incredibly louse-like behavior for her to be so turned on by her long-legged, blue-eyed, lean and damned sexy partner—_well hell there you go again, you… you… you idiot!_

_Oh, God. _

_You had two good things, and you've probably wrecked both, and now you want something you cannot have. Ever. _

_(… one of them wasn't that good…)_

_(… and you know which one…)_

**. . . .**

**. . . **

Spencer perked up during the lunch break. He managed to work up enough attitude to saunter over to Lassiter with a sports drink in one hand, a ham sandwich in the other, and Gus on his heels. "Congratulations, Lassie. You've been doing… okay… today."

Lassiter eyed him suspiciously. "So have you, Spencer."

"Well, considering that everyone thought I'd crash and burn from the first event, I'd say I've done better than okay. In fact, if you compare expectations to realities, I'd say I outclassed _everyone_ in my age group."

_Hmmm…_

"And that includes you, even if you did skedaddle off to a group of much, much older contestants."

Gus rolled his eyes.

Lassiter said evenly, "That's right. You do know I'm forty-three, right? And most of them are only forty-four?"

"Shawn, let's go," Gus broke in.

"Good idea," Lassiter agreed, and turned away before Spencer could make it worse.

_Besides, I feel guilty enough about ogling your girlfriend earlier._

He hadn't been able to stop himself going to her after she finished the swim event; he was pleased for her and wanted to say so, and then when she was standing there all wet and gorgeous he was almost glad she held the towel up so he couldn't stare at her breasts, since today he seemed to have lost his mind where she was concerned.

That is, lost it enough for her to notice. She hadn't noticed in the past few years but there was a first dreadful time for everything.

_Just not today, please. _

The next event was the rope climb. Stupid task, Lassiter groused to himself, calling to mind very bad days in grade school and junior high before he grew into his own body and it began working with him instead of against him. And it wasn't like people in normal Western society needed to climb ropes in daily life. _Stupid_.

Juliet came in third, and he'd kept his gaze on her face this time, not her (sensibly re-clothed) body, willing her to do well even if it _was_ a stupid event. But he didn't approach her this time, because he did have some sense left.

In the next group, there was trouble.

Spencer slipped off the rope after the first ten seconds, landing gracelessly on the floor, but wanted another shot at it. The judge said no, and A Fit Was Pitched.

Gus covered his eyes for a few moments. Juliet, on the sidelines, looked angry and embarrassed. Gus tried to calm him down but Juliet stood with arms folded, clearly unwilling to get involved in the spectacle.

Lassiter tried to remain expressionless. He kept thinking of times Spencer had made an ass of himself protesting umpire calls at their softball games, and it was wishful thinking that it was only bad when the ump was Henry.

_You were doing so well, Spencer, passing for an adult all day long, but it just couldn't last, could it?_

Spencer put on a good long foot-stomping show, during which time Chief Vick came up alongside Lassiter and commented dryly, "He makes me proud."

He glanced at her. "I suppose not all children can be angels."

Vick smiled. "Ironically, most angels are _adults_." Shaking her head, she added a congratulations for his successes so far today, and moved out of sight before Spencer could see her.

The situation degenerated sufficiently when Spencer yelled that the robe climb judge was blind, which was not only totally irrelevant to the issue but also a bad idea, since the judge had a glass eye. But the judge was cooler, retorting, "_Nobody_ needs two eyes to see you fell off the damn rope; now get off the court or you're disqualified from the entire competition!"

Gus dragged Spencer out of the test area by force, and the audience was visibly relieved.

Juliet had disappeared. Lassiter hoped she hadn't merely run off to find a pineapple smoothie to comfort her boy with.

**. . . .**

**. . . **

She wasn't going to think about it.

She wasn't going to think about it.

She was going to put far from her mind the scene Shawn had caused.

She was not going to think for one second about how childishly he'd behaved.

She most certainly was _not_ going to think _I knew this would happen_ or _THIS was why I wanted you out_ or _really Shawn? you called him blind?_

No. None of that.

She was going to get ready for the obstacle course, which would be the longest and second-to-last event of the day. (The final one was for fun, a tug-of-war over a vat of jello.)

God, she was furious with Shawn. He'd been doing great. He'd been trying. He'd acted like an adult and she'd assumed having made it that far, he'd keep on.

But no. No. Damn bloody hell no.

And that Carlton had been there, had seen it all, his expression unreadable but his damnably perceptive eyes taking it all in and no doubt judging privately that Shawn was a royal ass and she was the absolute queen of denial for being with him.

Gus found her pacing out on the field near where the obstacle course was set up. "I'm sorry, Juliet."

Juliet sighed. "It's not your fault, is it?"

"I feel like it is sometimes. I feel like there ought to be something _I_ can do when no one else can calm him down."

"There is," she reminded him. "It's called dragging him off somewhere, and you did that just fine."

"Should have done it sooner," Gus mumbled.

Yes. He should have done it sooner. "How is he now?" Not that she cared as much as she should. She wouldn't mind finding out he'd gone home in a huff.

"He's staying. But he's worn out, Juliet, and I don't think this is going to be good for anyone."

"Shocker," she whispered as he walked away disconsolately.

The obstacle course was part fun and part torture— more fun when watching _others_ maneuver it—and it took what was left of her energy to make it through to the end without falling on her ass or taking a header off the monkey bars. She didn't even care how she scored; she just wanted it to be over. The vat of jello was sounding better and better all the time.

Still, she came in fourth, legs and arms aching, and found a spot on the sun-warmed grass from which to watch Shawn.

Surprisingly—and to her great relief—he merely went at it with grim determination. No histrionics, no fuss; he started to tumble a few times but saved himself and went on, ever forward. Everyone was watching him in particular, which was probably a salve to his ego.

But the day had been too long and he'd run out of the "give" in "give-it-all-you've-got" some time earlier, so he came in at number seven and collapsed on the grass, letting Gus drag him by the arms out of the other contestants' way.

Juliet should have gotten up to go see to him.

She didn't.

Carlton was looking a little worn too, but not so much that his performance suffered. She knew he hated the more ridiculous aspects of the course—they'd discussed it in the past—but he wasn't one to go halfway on anything he tried.

_Do you have to look so damned good?_

Wiping sweat off her forehead, she took a swig of the water someone had handed her and went on watching his lean and graceful form, and gradually became aware that other women were watching him too. In fact, other women had been watching him all day long.

Truthfully, Juliet started to feel a little annoyed by all these other women ogling her partner.

_(… uh, where the hell have _you_ been, honey? ...)_

He was almost to the end—the tire run—when it happened; another contestant who wasn't far enough ahead landed in a tire sideways and lurched backwards and smacked into Carlton with a resounding thud, flinging him awkwardly off to the side.

Juliet was on her feet and racing over there before the judges even knew anything was wrong.

Whistles blew and the crowd oohed and Juliet knelt over him, pressing her hands to his arms and chest and making sure nothing was broken… and his skin was so warm and his eyes were so blue as they focused on her.

He was only winded but she couldn't stop checking him—_touching_ him—until he said gruffly he was fine, and the judges helped him to his feet but it was Juliet who took his arm and led him to the sidelines, not willing to let go just yet.

They sat on the grass and she gave him the water she'd abandoned a few moments earlier and he poured some on his face, breathing hard.

"You're okay?" she persisted.

"Yeah. Just got the wind knocked out of me."

Others came to make inquiries and he answered the same, but she stayed close, almost touching him, because she didn't want anyone else getting closer to him than she was right now.

And Carlton didn't move from his spot beside her, either.

He finally turned to face her and said, "Thanks."

Juliet only shook her head. He didn't need to thank her for anything. He needed to say "you're welcome."

She touched his arm and he tensed, but she kept her hand steady and he slowly relaxed.

"Partners," she said carefully, "are supposed to be there for each other. In my case, it's better late than never."

Carlton immediately cast his ocean-blue gaze upon her. "That's not how it is, O'Hara."

"It's how it's been lately, and I'm sorry."

The blue deepened, and he swallowed. "It goes both ways."

Juliet managed a small smile, but before she could pledge to do better, they were interrupted by Shawn, who loomed over them and said flatly, "You all right, Lassie?"

_Like you care_, she thought uncharitably, and then was ashamed; Shawn did have a heart and everyone there knew it.

"I am, Spencer. Thanks."

"The talk is you'd have come in third if you hadn't been knocked out of the running."

Carlton shrugged. "It's not my best event."

"Mine either." Shawn nodded and stepped away again, and Juliet realized he'd never even looked at her, let alone acknowledged her presence.

_Repair one, lose one… all in a day's mayhem._

"Time for jello," Carlton said neutrally, and got to his feet, reaching down to help her up.

She remembered hearing about a '60s garage band song called _Baby, Let's Bathe In Tang_, and a sudden image of being with Carlton in the jello made her gasp.

Now it was his turn to ask if _she_ was okay, and she lied about a foot cramp… and stayed away from him the rest of the day.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	4. Chapter 4: PostGames Chat

**CHAPTER FOUR**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Eighty people was too many for a tug-of-war, and the judges didn't think the vat of lime jello would hold up under too many losing groups (nor that the last group would want to be in "used" jello, no matter what color or flavor).

So it was women vs. women and men vs. men, with the men going first.

Lassiter did not intend to land in the jello. Period. He wouldn't mind if Juliet did, because today he had become a sex-obsessed pig where she was concerned, but _he_ was Not. Going. In.

Spencer, on the other hand, was determined that both of them would, so he insisted on joining Lassiter's side of the rope, despite Lassiter's warning to the others that he was only there to sabotage them.

Judging by the gleam in Spencer's eyes, he knew he was dead-on right. All he could do was keep to the back of the rope, with Spencer a safe distance in front of him, and brother, pull like hell.

He could see Juliet on the sidelines, cheering and whistling, and it seemed to him she had her gaze on him rather than Spencer, but then again, he was clearly the idiot today. He still hadn't quite recovered from having her hands all over his body as he lay winded after the obstacle course debacle.

_Damn. Her fingers were so very warm and persistent. Not really sure why she was checking quite so thoroughly but I'm not complaining at all._

_You've had this under control for years, you moron. Why is it different now? It can't just be from seeing her in shorts and a bathing suit. You're not _that_ hormonal._

The whistle blew and the pulling commenced. He was tired but held on damned tight to the rope and pulled like he was hauling in pro wrestlers on a steroid abuse charge. Like he was wading into a room full of Democrat football players on meth. Like he was arresting a beer hall full of long-distance truckers on NoDoz who were armed with rabid poodles.

Spencer, as he suspected, began working against the team (pulling forward instead of back), and Lassiter had to fight the impulse to interrupt the proceedings to arrest him (besides, his weapon and cuffs were in the Fusion). He did make a few judicious remarks to the cop in front of him, who passed it on to the cop in front of him, who passed it on to the fireman in front of him… and so on, and so on… and almost magically, without Lassiter _technically_ having laid even one finger on him, Spencer was abruptly and forcibly ejected from the line and propelled rapidly over the edge and directly into the vat.

Green globs of jello flew through the air, the onlookers went wild with laughter and catcalls, and while the team on the other side of the rope mistakenly thought they'd won (not bothering to analyze why the entire opposite side remained upright and dry _except_ for the bozo in the vat), Lassiter's team took advantage of their surprise and yanked the first five of them in after Spencer.

So.

Lassiter grinned.

All things considered, damned good day.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet showered off the worst of the jello—not that her team lost—and plotted the murder of Shawn Spencer.

He wasn't happy about having been forced off his own team, even though she'd been one of many in the audience who could plainly see he'd been undermining them, and the twelve-year-old boy in him who thought it was fun to be in the jello also thought it would be fun to have his girlfriend join him, so after her half of the women's team achieved victory, he lured her to the edge (sticky and globby with lime) and simply pushed her in.

She heard Carlton speak sharply to him while she was wiping gelatin out of her eyes and cursing, but before she could even _see_ properly it was over. Shawn had stomped off and Carlton was helping her out of the vat just as he'd earlier helped her out of the pool, strong hand firm around her slippery arm.

He was extremely annoyed on her behalf and shot an icy blue glare at Shawn's retreating back. "Idiot," he growled. "Some guys never grow up."

Juliet agreed fully, sluicing globs off her shorts and tee, and Carlton looked exasperated, but thankfully not with her.

She knew what he was thinking: _why are you _with_ him?_

_(… you're thinking it too…)_

But he sucked it up, led her to the ladies' locker room, and told her he'd wait if she wanted.

Yeah, Juliet _wanted_.

But what she wanted was inappropriate… for starters.

"I'll be okay," she said with a sigh. "Thanks, Carlton."

He nodded, touched her sticky shoulder lightly, and strode off.

Now she was clean enough to be suitable for her drive home, after collecting her prizes and feeling proud for Carlton as he collected his. She should have gone to stand with Shawn when he was given his second and third place prizes, but honestly she was still too pissed off, and beyond that, he had _not_ showered off the jello, so he was tinged with sticky green. Even Gus was keeping his distance.

Carlton got sucked into a stream of back-slapping, congratulatory cops who wanted to take him out for drinks; hell, they wanted to take everyone out for drinks, but Juliet was done for the day. A stab of guilt about wanting to go with him instead of out to celebrate with her boyfriend (not that he'd asked) (actually not that Carlton had asked either) made her realize she was better off going home. Alone.

Maybe that's all she deserved, anyway.

**. . . .**

**. . . **

She woke up trembling at precisely 2:27.

The vivid images from the dream were still alive, still tickling at her, still pulling her back to the utter fantasy.

Carlton. Naked. In the jello.

Herself. Naked. Right there with him.

Contrary to how strange and squooshy it had felt to be in real jello, in the dream it was all silky and sensuous and intensely erotic… and just as he was about to kiss her, a judge blew a whistle and ordered them out of the vat. She could just make out the judge's nametag—Lawson—and protested, becoming hopelessly distracted as Carlton ran his slippery hands down her sides and thighs. But then Judge Lawson got out an AK-47 and fired jello blobs at them, which made Carlton quite irate. He started to get out of the vat—still naked—and Juliet was trying desperately to get a full look at him when the judge switched over to espresso beans for ammo, and knowing those suckers would sting like the dickens, Juliet woke up frustrated and fully aware that she had a serious problem on her hands.

Hell. She never did anything the easy way anymore, did she?

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Lassiter really wanted to blame his raging headache Sunday morning on a hangover from staying out drinking, but this deal was no sale.

In the first place, he'd been home by eight p.m. because most of the other cops were dragged away by their tired wives and girlfriends and the rest of them _really_ needed proper showers.

In the second place, he could not deny the real reason for the headache: he'd woken from an intensely erotic dream about Juliet in the swimming pool, fell out of bed, knocked his head against the dresser and ended up cursing on the floor in the dark trying to fend off images of his nude partner in cool blue water, beckoning to him as she tossed her bikini halves up onto her towel.

At least it hadn't been a dream about the jello. He might have _completely_ brained himself.

A flash of irritation overtook him as he recalled Spencer pushing Juliet into the vat. He'd seen the look on her face—surprise, anger—and it was all he could do not to punch the jello-head in the nose for treating her that way. He told him to clear off until he was at least fifteen and hauled his partner out before she had a chance to…well, set.

He would never look at lime jello again without thinking of Juliet. If she had any idea how difficult it had been not to _help_ sluice the stuff off her…

_But look here, man. Last week you were furious and told her she was an idiot because she asked you to do something she had no right to ask. You should still be angry. You should have your eyes closed to these images right now—hell, _forever_—because she's not yours to fantasize about_.

_So why are you unable to shake her out of your head?_

He didn't know, except she was never very far out of his head to begin with. _He_ was out of his head, of course, but that was something a therapist would have to wrest out of him.

Right after he relived the pool dream.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Sunday afternoon, Juliet ignored a couple of texts from Shawn, fully prepared to claim her phone was in "the other room" (which location was variable depending upon which room she _was_ in at the time), or locked in the car, or possibly being digested by neighborhood wildebeests. She could come up with an excuse if she needed; she simply didn't want to talk to him right now.

Guilt followed her from bedroom to kitchen, from kitchen to sofa, from sofa to back deck, where she sat in the sun sipping iced tea and reflecting on her options.

This thing with Carlton… this thing. _What_ thing? There was no thing. She had the temporary hots for him but they would pass; they'd passed before.

_(__**…**__ unless the reason you keep having them is that they're not paaaaassssssing__**…**__ )_

Juliet cleared her throat, startling a robin on the deck's edge. This thing with Carlton was here now because of her guilt about having asked him to go easy on Shawn and because of her additional guilt (and appreciation) for him having moved himself into the other contestant group.

Shawn, on the other hand, was her boyfriend. He cared about her.

She'd selfishly asked him to step back from something he obviously really wanted to do, and that had been no less wrong than asking Carlton to pull back.

She had to talk to Shawn to explain all the ways she was upset with him as well as sorry for having doubted him.

_(… are you _really_ sorry? didn't he prove your point by having the rope climb hissy fit? by trying to sabotage his own tug-of-war group? by pushing you into the jello?…)_

Nevertheless, she argued with herself, she had to talk to him. Shawn was dense and would not get this on his own. She couldn't be one of those women who assumed a guy _knew_ the problem.

Shawn did _not_ know the problem.

Shawn did not _want_ to know the problem.

Shawn was never going to get it on his own. _Ever_. Unless she talked to him.

He might not even get it then but she had to try, at least one more time, so she could be sure _she_ did her best.

_(… before you kick him to the curb…)_

_Shut. Up. There will be no curb-kicking!_

His third text lit up her phone. _Jules_, _I have to talk to you TODAY_.

Juliet sighed_. Come over_.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

She opened the door when he knocked, wearing a smile she hoped looked real. "Hey, Shawn."

"Jules." He passed by, unsmiling, and deposited himself on her sofa, but he was agitated, and it showed in the way he held on to the pillow he immediately picked up to hug to his chest.

It was a funny habit, she'd thought many times, that Shawn would always hold a pillow in front of himself when he was nervous, or lying, or… okay, agitated.

Choosing the chair rather than to sit with him, she asked how he felt after yesterday's physical exertions.

"Fine," he said shortly, "and that's why I'm here. Because you feel like you have to ask me that question. Because you assume I'm a wreck."

"But Shawn, _I'm_ kind of a wreck. I've already taken two doses of Aleve today and it's only 1:30."

"Bet you wouldn't ask Lassie if _he's_ feeling okay." His tone was belligerent.

She bit back the sharp words she _wanted_ to use for a milder, "Well, I probably would, since he got knocked down during the obstacle course."

"I fell ten feet off that rope, Jules. I don't remember you asking me how _I_ was."

Juliet snapped, "You were acting like a spoiled brat. Honestly, I didn't want to be anywhere _near_ you."

Shawn looked wounded. "I may have been a little over-the-top in expressing my… _annoyance_ at the complete injustice of the decision, but I could have been injured too, and you didn't come to me. You should have been there before I started to… object… to the judge's woefully misguided call."

Now she was wary. "You hadn't been very friendly all day. I figured you were still mad about me asking you to step down, and for what it's worth, Shawn, I apologize for that. I had no right."

"No you didn't." He got up, but held on to the pillow as he paced. "You didn't have _any_ right, and then somehow you got Lassie to bump himself up to the next group. You stole _my_ Constitutional right to compete with him."

Juliet was astounded. "In the first place, Constitutional my ass, and in the second place, I had nothing to do with that! It was his idea. I was as surprised as anyone else when he wasn't on the starting line with you."

Shawn threw the pillow down. "But where would he get an idea like that unless you gave it to him? Lassie loves a good fight like any other red-blooded man, not that I've given up my firm belief he's really an android."

"Shawn—"

"The point is you got your way: I was out there competing by myself."

"My _way_? _What_? And what the hell do you mean, by yourself? There were ten other people in your group, and you did pretty well, considering."

"Pretty well," he repeated acidly. "_Considering_. You just don't want to admit I did good."

She got up too, hands on hips. "I believe I congratulated you more than once yesterday. I'm _proud_ that your hard work paid off."

Shawn waved this aside. "Never mind. I know how you really feel. I know what you really want to say is you're surprised I survived the day at all and you probably think I bribed people to let me do as well as I did."

Juliet laughed out loud. "Seriously? Unless you offered them Gus' credit card, who was going to let you win without a damn good incentive? The people in this contest wanted to be there, Shawn, just like you." _Even if _your_ reasons were wrong-headed_.

He was still, and not listening; she knew this very well about him. He was focused on some inner voice. Slowly, he bent to pick up the pillow and placed it neatly on the sofa. "Here's the thing, Jules. I need more from you."

_(… what more can you give him without giving up what spine you have left? That's what Carlton tried to tell you...)_

"Like what?" she asked quietly.

"I need to be first with you. Or at least I need to know I can count on you for some basic girlfriend stuff, you know?"

"Like what, Shawn?" she repeated.

"I fell from the rope and you stayed away from me, but when Lassie went down in the obstacle course, you were on him like white on rice. You asked me to pull out and I wouldn't and then he just _coincidentally_ happened to get into another group? And then somehow the guys behind me conspired to pitch me into the jello and even though that was cool and might even have been a bucket list kind of thing, I know he instigated it—"

"You were sabotaging your own team," Juliet said pointedly. "Everyone could see what you were doing. It didn't have to be Carlton who did something about it. A lot of cops were lined up behind you and some of us are pretty sharp, you know?"

He let her speak, but went on as if she hadn't. "I know he instigated it, and then you let him rescue you out of the vat when you decided it wasn't as fun for you to be dumped in it as it was to watch _me_ get dumped in it."

Juliet rubbed her forehead. "What else, Shawn? How else have I let you down?"

"You didn't stand with me when I got my awards."

"I was still pissed about you shoving me into the jello. And you didn't stand with me, did you?"

He ignored that. "You didn't come out to celebrate afterwards."

"You didn't ask me," she protested.

"You should have asked _me_. You should have suggested we celebrate, Jules. A round of churros at the least. But nothing."

Juliet shook her head in disbelief.

He went on sadly, "And when I had appendicitis you didn't take care of me. You let Gus do it."

"Oh come on! That was months ago, and you were acting like a big baby!"

Shawn sighed regretfully. "You could have talked me out of it, Jules."

"What? You're on crack. No one talks you out of anything."

"You didn't _try_. I'm willing to _try_ to be a good boyfriend but you're not willing to work with me."

Juliet's mouth dropped open. "Wait. You mean it's _my_ job to make _you_ a better boyfriend?"

"You doubted me. You've doubted me since I first mentioned Tough Enough. You assumed I couldn't do this. You assumed I was going to fail. You weren't there for me yesterday but you were damn sure there for your partner."

"But he's my partner," she said plaintively, because she was losing her mind. "And were you there for me? I was in the competition too, remember? Did you ever ask me how my training was going? Did you congratulate me on my successes?"

He blinked. "Don't distract me when I'm coming to my conclusion."

She sank back into her chair, wishing for more Aleve and maybe some earplugs, and guilt be damned, the irrefutable truth was she needed to end this relationship, the sooner the better.

Wearily, she asked, "And what's your conclusion?"

"It's over," he said softly. "I know I'm not the ideal boyfriend. Hell, I'm not the ideal friend or son, either. But I know when something's not working, and I know a brick wall when I see one. We're too different, Jules. We see things differently and we want different things, and we're done. So I'll see you around, okay?" He bent to kiss her cheek while she was still translating his inexplicable words into English, and after a quiet, "I'm sorry, but goodbye," he was gone.

**. . . .**


	5. Chapter 5: Lunch

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**. . . .**

**. . . **

Lassiter strode down the hall toward his desk, his mind on two things: one, getting back to work on the convenience store robbery/homicide, and two, getting back to some kind of normal relationship with his partner.

He had to put the more X-rated images he'd been bombarded with all weekend aside, because there was not now nor had there _ever_ been room for that in their interaction, even when she was single. He couldn't stop the dreams, but he could stop the waking thoughts.

_Sure ya can, buddy._

He stopped at Juliet's desk. She looked up at him, as fresh and pretty as always, though perhaps she was a bit less bright than usual in the moment before she smiled at him. "O'Hara."

"Carlton," she said with mock solemnity. "I have the EMT report and the forensics from the gas station."

"Good. Ah… are you up for lunch today? I'm buying."

Juliet blinked. "Sure. And thanks! Although… you don't normally ask four hours in advance."

They didn't have lunch together as often as they used to, so he had to be sure she didn't already have plans with Spencer. But now that she'd agreed so readily, he had no idea what to say to her.

Pause.

"So…" she prompted with a slight smile. "Forensics?" She held out the report, and he took it gratefully, carrying it over to his desk where it was 'safe.'

There were interruptions throughout the morning as participants and spectators from Tough Enough came along to congratulate, well, _everyone_ on how they'd done. Lassiter and Juliet had taken top honors overall, but all the cops had made a pretty good showing and naturally all were in agreement that the fire department was wrong to think _they_ were the city's only kick-ass employees.

Chief Vick turned a benevolent eye toward the controlled chaos for the first few hours, but with the Mayor's office still breathing fire about the homicide from last week, they had to focus on work again to keep _her_ from breathing fire on _them_.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet took a couple of Aleve mid-morning when Carlton was in Booking arguing with Officer Allen about whether or not she'd taken down the name of a potential informant correctly. He was sure it couldn't have been Snirfl, but Officer Allen was sticking to her claim of both excellent hearing and penmanship.

Dobson walked by and nodded, with a grin at her bottle of Aleve. "Aches and pains still?"

"Oh, yeah," she lied, and drank down her water as he moved on.

She was only a little stiff from Tough Enough. It was her head which wanted to kill her at the moment. She hadn't slept at all last night; rather, she hadn't had any _quality_ sleep between ruminating about Shawn and dodging what could only be called sex dreams about Carlton.

_Is my brain amping up my attraction to Carlton in response to the unexpected dump-age by Shawn?_

_(… or are you just really attracted to Carlton, and now you're free to imagine? …)_

Shawn. She still couldn't believe it.

Even after the door snicked shut; even three hours after the door snicked shut—even in the middle of the night, technically the _day _after the door snicked shut, she was still trying to work out what she thought about him breaking up with her.

Staring at her computer screen and seeing nothing, she went over it all for the seventeenth time. Maybe eighteenth.

Undoubtedly, she felt relief the struggle was over. Being Shawn Spencer's girlfriend was work. No other relationship had prepared her for the amount of work it would be.

She also felt regret that Shawn, even as narcissistically misguided as he was, believed she had failed him.

She also felt he really _was_ narcissistically misguided, or in the vernacular, an idiot. The idea that _she_ had _ever_ failed _him_?

True, she hadn't been Girlfriend of The Year on Saturday (or Friday), but over the duration of their relationship she had made far more compromises, yielded far too often to his will, and ended up far too often with the short end of the stick. If it wasn't because of Shawn's whim of the moment, it was Gus taking up his time, and while she liked Gus a lot and had thought many times he would make a good wife for Shawn, he was essentially a third wheel, one Shawn couldn't do without. And _hadn't_ done without.

Of course there was no competing with a thirty-year bromance, but she'd still had this crazy idea that a boyfriend's first priority would be his girlfriend. Fortunately, she'd gotten over _that_ a few months in, and it was just as well, because her work schedule didn't exactly make for predictable dating anyway.

Anyway, it was over now. She let out a breath. Her ego was a bit bruised, and her sense of surrealism was still on high, and she had no idea how he was going to behave now—cocky? magnanimous? overly solicitous of her ostensibly broken heart?—but _it was over_.

Whether accepting this was going to solve the problem of the detailed dream she'd had about peeling Carlton's clothes off with only her teeth, she didn't know.

Nor did she know what to do about the dream where she'd inexplicably been naked at work and invited him to take her right on her desk—to which he'd said 'I think I will'—only just as he was about to undo his belt, that damned Judge Lawson from the first dream showed up again and tried to drag him away. Juliet and the judge had a tug of war—no way was Juliet losing her man to some jello-shooting imitation-judge chick—with Carlton's shirt and pants somehow falling off his lean body during the tussle, but again, just as Juliet was about to _finally_ get an eyeful of his fine Irish flesh, the clock radio blared into life with the _entirely_ appropriate _Baby Did A Bad, Bad Thing. _

So. No sleep, muddled head, hormones on overload, and Aleve it was.

Lunch couldn't come soon enough. Just the way he'd looked at her when he asked—like it was something unusual to have lunch (lately it was). His eyes were sky-blue and his expression oddly uncertain, and she wondered how soft his hair was and then had to offer him the forensics to get herself under control.

_(… someone's in heat…)_

Juliet sighed. _Yeah. But it might pass_.

_(… someone's in denial…)_

Carlton came back down the hall muttering, "Snirfl. For the love of God, _Snirfl_?"

Juliet had to laugh. It was the only thing which made sense right now.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

They were meeting with the informant just before noon, behind a boutique in the shopping district. Lassiter parked the Vic on the street and he and Juliet walked briskly down the alley—even that was pricey—to the designated dumpster two-thirds of the way along.

A young man stepped out from behind it, looking nervously past them to be sure they weren't followed. His hair was spiky and streaked with purple, his boots were covered with bling, and he motioned to them to come closer. "You're the cops, right?"

Lassiter flashed his badge. "Lassiter and O'Hara. You're… Snirfl?"

"Yeah. I want to—"

"Snirfl… with an i?"

The man was immediately incensed. "No! How low-rent would _that_ be? It's with an E!"

Lassiter stared at him.

Juliet said, "So it's S N _E_…"

"R F L, of course; what else would it be?" He flicked a spike of his hair back as if it had vexed him. "Honestly."

Lassiter muttered, "I _knew_ Allen was wrong. I knew—"

"Carlton," she said mildly. "She may have been wrong about the spelling but she was right about the name, so it's a draw. Walk away."

He glanced at her, and once again, she was right: focus on the _less_ ridiculous of the many ridiculous elements of any given situation. "All right, mister…Snerfl… why are we here?"

But Juliet interrupted. "I'm sorry; what's your first name?"

_What, Snerfl was too formal? _

"Mercurochrome."

"Oh. Snerfl it is, then. Go on."

Snerfl sighed dramatically. "I live in the apartment next door to Zack Markham and his twerpy little roommate. I believe you know the name Minto Everedge?"

"Oh yes." Everedge was the convenience store clerk. "What do you know about him?"

"Not much," Snerfl said archly. "But I overheard them—the walls are _so_ thin—arguing about a fight they were planning to have."

Juliet held up her hand. "_Planning_ to have?"

"That's right, sweetie." He looked her over from head to toe, and Lassiter would have decked him for it if he hadn't known instinctively Snerfl didn't go that way. "Nice heels. Not practical for the job, I imagine."

She eyed him, cool, collected, and armed.

He cleared his throat. "Yes. Planning to have. Minto was concerned he'd get hurt. Zack said that's the whole point, because if he wasn't _actually_ hurt, no one would believe it."

"Believe what?" Lassiter asked.

Now Snerfl gave _him_ the once-over. "Tie's nice. Offsets your absolutely _gorgeous_ eyes. Shiny shoes. But really, such a stereotype. Come by the shop after the case is solved and I'll help you renovate."

"Believe _what_?" he barked, feeling Juliet's amusement without even looking at her.

"I didn't hear that part. But come on, detective. Planning to have a fake fight with a real injury, and then Minto ends up 'wounded' in a robbery gone bad?"

"Nice air quotes," Juliet murmured, earning a glare from Snerfl. "Could you please explain your name? Mercurochrome Snerfl?"

"Is that relevant to the information I just gave you?"

"In every way," she lied with smooth expertise.

Lassiter fought back a smirk, watching Snerfl glower. "Let me guess. You grew up with Snuffleupagus, wanted a more portable version, and also had a lot of skinned knees before the FDA banned the orange stuff?"

Snerfl's falsely-violet eyes grew wide. "Umm… yeah… something like that."

Juliet was composed. "Can you tell us anything else? Like what you may have overheard the day of the robbery, or since then?"

"Well, Minto's been around looking agitated, but Zack hasn't been home. I mean, I'm at work all day so I don't know for sure, but he hasn't been there at night. I can tell because Minto paces." When they both looked at him silently, he elucidated. "The walls are thin, remember? And Minto kinda shuffles. When Zack's there, he tells him to pick up his feet because the shuffling noise hurts his ears. But no one was yelling at Minto the last few nights."

"What does Zack do for a living?"

"He's in construction. Does a lot of jack-hammering, I think."

This was as much surreality as Lassiter could handle for one ten-minute conversation, so he asked Boutique Boy one more time if he had more information, and Juliet thanked him for coming forward, _we'll be in touch_, all that.

Snerfl called down the alley after them, "I'm serious about the renovation offer!"

Juliet murmured, "Let go of your weapon, Carlton."

It was _definitely_ time for lunch.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Settled into a booth at a Chinese place Juliet liked—a nice place, because buying her lunch at a street vendor would be insulting—Lassiter was simultaneously calm and uneasy.

She sat across from him apparently serene, her hands folded on the table. In this lighting, her eyes seemed an especially lovely dark blue, a shade he'd always admired and could not imagine ever admitting to her.

_Well, you can _imagine_ it. You _have_ imagined it._

"I need to apologize," he said abruptly. "For last week. I'm sorry."

Juliet stared at him, silent too long—didn't she know his heart was pounding?

"I shouldn't have called you an idiot. It was wrong and you probably hate me for it but even though I was angry I shouldn't have said anything like that to you. No way did you deserve it."

"Carlton, you don't have to apologize."

He felt a tiny stab of exasperation. "Don't do that. Don't make it easy for me. You're too forgiving, O'Hara. You always let things go."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, don't you worry; I can hold a grudge. I'm still pissed off you liked Sophie Morris Bridgewell's hair but didn't notice mine."

Lassiter was taken aback. "Who the _hell_ is—"

"Never mind, Carlton. The point is, I had it coming. Being called an idiot. I was totally out of line and I'm the one who needs to apologize to you."

He stared at her, uncertain how to take this. _And who the hell _was_ Sophie whoozit thingy?_ "I… no. You…. wait."

Juliet smiled faintly. "You woke me up. I'd been in denial a long time about how my actions were affecting our partnership—our friendship. If you'd been nicer about it, we'd still be where we were last week: heading downhill. But after this weekend, and even today, I feel as if… well, as if we're getting back on track."

He felt warm, but it was a good warm. "Oh. I… I hope we are."

"And for what it's worth, not only am I apologizing to you, but I also have to thank you for what you did on Saturday. Getting into the other group was…" She trailed off for a moment. "Brilliant, and it was exactly the best way to handle it."

"It wasn't a perfect solution. Spencer was still an—" He stopped.

_Be nice. She most likely remembers every word of what you said last week and no matter how much you might enjoy repeating it, she probably wouldn't enjoy hearing it_.

"An ass," Juliet supplied. "I know. But having him out of direct competition with you took the edge off everything else." She tucked a stray few hairs behind her ear (oh how he wanted to do that for her) and sighed. "And just so you know, it turns out I'm an equal opportunity offender. On Friday night I actually asked Shawn to withdraw from Tough Enough."

"Seriously? I mean, in so many words?"

She seemed embarrassed. "He took it about as well as you did when I asked you to go easy on him. It's just… hell, Carlton, there was no _way_ it was going to end well. If I'd thought for one minute he entered because he really—and _only_—wanted to test himself, I would never have interfered. But you _know_ him. You know him as well as I do, and all that crap on Saturday would have been ten times worse if he'd gone up against you directly. I had to stop it _somehow_."

"You _did_." He felt an overwhelming need to reassure her.

"No," she said wryly. "_You_ did. You stopped it by getting out of his group, and by being the adult in the equation. It was all you. Every one of us who was there owes you bigtime."

Feeling uncomfortable—this was too much praise—he shook his head. "I'm not that noble. I was just trying to make it easier for myself. I didn't figure it mattered much to anyone else how he treated me."

Her jaw dropped. "Carlton, that's… that's not true. Of course it matters how he treats you."

Lassiter toyed with his napkin. He knew she was wrong, and he had six-plus years of memories to back him up.

When he glanced at her again, her expression was one of pure regret. "I guess it hasn't seemed that way to _you_, has it." Suddenly she put her hands to her face, sighing as she rubbed her forehead. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for a lot of things."

"Juliet, stop. Shawn Spencer is not your fault."

Another faint smile graced her face. "Listen, I might as well tell you. He broke up with me yesterday."

The waitress reappeared with their tea and soup while his mouth was hanging open, and it was all he could do to wait for the woman to retreat again. "The _hell_? What kind of ass-hat moron would break up with _you_?"

Juliet laughed lightly, her cheeks pink. "That may be the nicest thing you've ever said to me. It's right up there with the time you told me I wasn't hot."

He was embarrassed at once. "I didn't tell _you_ that. I told the punk teen in the back seat so he'd quit making inappropriate remarks. Anyway, why the hell would Spencer dump you? You're like the perfect girlfriend."

_Oh God, I am such a moron._

The pink in her cheeks deepened. "Carlton," she said softly. "Thank you."

He was beyond mortified, but she only sipped soup for a moment, so he poured the tea and tried to get his heart rate under control.

"He thought I'd been letting him down," she explained. "Not showing enough support."

Lassiter didn't know what to say. He'd always hoped she'd come to her senses and drop the bozo but the idea that Spencer had dumped _her_ was difficult to wrap his head around. "I'm not sure how much more support you could have shown him."

Juliet shrugged. "You and me both. But it's okay, you know? I'm okay. I knew for a long time the relationship was in trouble. If he hadn't ended it, I would have soon enough."

He hoped like hell that was true. If she were going to have regrets about this—or God forbid try to reconcile with him—then it was too late for her in every way. _He'd_ have to leave town rather than watch her try to win Spencer back.

Juliet smiled at him. "You're trying not to crow."

"No," he said seriously. "I'm not. It doesn't matter what _I _think of him. I'm… concerned that you'll be all right. Especially if he goes all whackaloon now."

She laughed. "We'll find out together. All I can be sure of is that it's over, and there's no going back. Now I can move on."

There was such a satisfied tone to her remark that it made him wonder something he didn't want to wonder, and shouldn't wonder, because it was incredibly unlikely given the timing.

Still.

"You… um, got someone lined up already?"

Her glance was sharp and amused. "No, Carlton. There's no one new in my life."

Not yet, anyway. But she was a lovely woman and once word got out she was a free agent… he wouldn't let himself think about it. _Deflect_. "Oh. So it's Guster?"

She burst into laughter, and he was relieved; maybe she'd forget he called her a perfect girlfriend a minute ago. "Yes, it's Gus. Exactly right. I've been lying awake at night dreaming of _Gus_ all this time. You would not _believe_ the dreams, in fact." Her grin was wicked.

"Oh, I know about dreams," he assured her, thinking of the ones he'd been having the past few days. "But not about Guster, God forbid."

She laughed again, and he was glad to see her relaxed. "So... do your dreams mean _you_ have someone lined up?"

Lassiter stomped on _that_ right quick. "No. There's no one new in _my_ life either." _And if I told you exactly how many _years_ this not-new woman has been in my life… you'd probably run out of here screaming._

Juliet met his gaze with only the slightest of frowns. "So it's Gus for you too, then."

He couldn't help but laugh—if anyone else on the planet had made the joke, he'd have had to resist reaching for his weapon, but from Juliet, it was all good. "Well. He does have the magic head."

She giggled (and he didn't mind). "You know I'll have to fight you for him."

Arching one eyebrow, he inquired, "Shooting range at dawn?"

"You're on, partner."

Odd how whenever Juliet said 'partner,' she managed to wrap so much up into it. She would never know how much she conveyed with those two little syllables.

**. . . .**

**. . . **

Juliet, comfortably full of moo goo gai pan, glanced at Carlton in the driver's seat.

She was already reliving their lunch. His apology. His gratifying shock that Shawn had dumped her. His declaration that she was the perfect girlfriend. His so-blue eyes. His admission that he too felt better about their partnership. Her overwhelming sense that they were on the way back to where they were supposed to be. His _damnably_ blue eyes, and his laughter, and his long-fingered hands, and his eyes, and his smoky voice, and who in the hell had _he_ been dreaming about? Because maybe they should compare notes. While naked.

_Easy there, sister. What's in your head might not be in his._

_(… he as good as said you're hot…)_

_Yeah, he did._

Juliet smiled—feline this time.

At any rate, she felt so much better than she had last week, and clearly he did too.

She smiled again, looking out the window at a city she absolutely did not see. Being newly besotted with Carlton might be fun for awhile. Then later she could decide whether to knock on that door or let it go. He'd say no, because he wasn't made to repeat mistakes, and she'd feel like a fool, but until then, her dreams had definite entertainment value and besides, the safest sex was no sex at all, right?

"What are you grinning about?" he asked mildly.

"Mercurochrome Snerfl," she lied.

"I'm running that guy's ID. Five bucks says his name is something like Melvin McMervin."

"No way. It'll be more like Wentworth Covington-Smythe," she challenged.

"Susie Jones," he shot back, and she dissolved into laughter, loving the light in his smiling Irish eyes.

At the station, he parked in their spot and they got out, but as she cleared the hood her heel caught on an uneven bit of concrete and she pitched forward.

Impossibly fast, Carlton caught her before she fell, and she abruptly found herself closer to him than she'd been in a long time—apart from her recent prurient dreams. "Thanks," she said breathlessly, feeling his hands on her arms and the warmth of his body as she clung to him.

His eyes were huge, shifting shades of blue, and she knew—in the way all women know—that he was as _aware_ as she was.

_Oh, thank God._

"I've been warning you for years about those heels," he managed.

_You will _not_ pass up this chance._

_(… go for it, sweets…)_

Wait… the little voices were in agreement?

Juliet swallowed. "And if I'd listened, I wouldn't be here in your arms right now, would I?"

Carlton stared at her. She stared right back. She wasn't moving away and he wasn't setting her away, and there were no sounds around them, which made her thundering heartbeat seem even louder.

"No," he whispered. "No you wouldn't."

It was getting hard to breathe. Her heart was trying to climb out of her chest.

"Juliet?"

She started to answer but realized his mouth hadn't moved. Who...

"Juliet, can I talk to you a minute?"

Carlton blinked and stepped back suddenly, keeping one hand on her arm to steady her.

Gus was standing a few feet away, obviously uncomfortable.

"Crap," Carlton muttered sotto voce. "I'll see you inside, O'Hara."

_Crap indeed_, she thought, and turned to Gus with a pleasant smile which was altogether false in Every. Single. Regard.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	6. Chapter 6: Waiting

**CHAPTER SIX**

**. . . .**

**. . . **

Post-almost-kiss, Lassiter was not so out of his mind that he didn't remember to stop and say icily to the wide-eyed Officer Allen, "It _was_ Snerfl, but with an _e_."

Beyond that, he barely remembered how to get to his desk.

Two simple truths.

One, if Guster hadn't shown up, he would have kissed Detective Juliet O'Hara right there in the police station parking lot. He would have kissed her a lot. Hard. And probably for the rest of the day.

Two, she'd wanted him to do just that.

He knew it. He was capable of doubting just about every single interaction he'd had with any female _ever_ since kindergarten, but he _knew_ she wanted him to kiss her. There. In the parking lot. On the mouth. And more than once.

Lassiter let out a breath, trying to calm himself down, because the third simple fact was she'd been single less than a day. Her ego had been dented—and for the love of God, Spencer walked away from _her_? Was there nothing left of the man's sanity at all? Beautiful, smart, kind, funny, tolerant Juliet O'Hara, kicked aside? Spencer was now officially a moron of the highest magnitude. _Wait to be dumped, you idiot! Stay with near-perfection as long you can, you clownboy whackaloon, or you really do belong in the loony bin!_

With considerable effort, he yanked his train of thought back onto the tracks. Of course Juliet's ego had been dented by the unexpected breakup—anyone's ego would be dented. This on top of _their_ upset last week had to be the only reason she was having any… thoughts about him at all.

It would pass. If she wasn't already grateful for Guster's interruption, she would be soon enough.

_So be her _friend_, Lassiter, pretend it never happened, and get back to work._

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Gus was uneasy. "I… uh, hope I didn't intrude."

Juliet debated for only one second whether to deny or ignore. "You weren't intruding. I stumbled and he was lecturing me about my heels. What can I do for you, Gus?"

"Um, it's Shawn."

No surprise there. "What about him?"

He fidgeted a moment and then blurted, "You have to take him back."

She blinked in confusion, her mind already saying no. "I don't think it works that way. He broke up with me, remember?"

"_Damn_. I was hoping that was just his ego talking." He seemed genuinely disappointed.

"Gus, it's okay. It's for the best, really."

"You don't understand, Juliet. He's already showing signs of insanity."

_(Laugh or scoff?)_

"I'm serious. You have to take him back."

"Gus, if anyone was going to take anyone back, it'd be Shawn taking me back, because he's the one who broke it off. But I don't… _want_ to be taken back. You understand?"

He searched her face, his dark eyes clearly unhappy. "He hasn't slept."

Juliet sighed. "It's been one day."

"He doesn't want to watch TV."

"One day, Gus."

"He isn't eating."

"Hmmm. That _could_ be significant," she admitted, but then gave him her best O'Hara scowl, "except it's only been _one day!_"

Poor guy looked miserable. She almost asked him why he wasn't happy, since now he had Shawn to himself again. "What did he tell you about the breakup?"

"Not much. Just that he knew it wasn't going to work and he had to let you down."

She resisted the powerful urge to roll her eyes. "The first part's accurate. Look, you know I care about him. You of all people also know how challenging it is to be in his life—and the more I think about it, the more I see it's the same for him. He honestly doesn't understand why people aren't more like him. It must be a real struggle for Shawn to… to _process_ everyone else. But Gus…" she trailed off.

He sighed. "I know. I always knew it was coming. I just wasn't ready for it to come so soon, and I don't know how to help him."

She patted his arm. "You just give it time. We'll both be okay—and so will you. And for the record," she added with a gentle smile, "time means more than one day." Another pat, and she headed away, because she knew full well that in the mere minutes they'd been apart, Carlton Lassiter had put up every last one of his defenses, if not already filed the paperwork for a transfer.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet approached his desk rapidly and sat in the chair alongside. "Carlton," she said firmly.

He met her gaze, hoping the warmth he felt wasn't manifesting as a blush.

"You are not going to ignore this."

She looked fierce, and at the same time kind and utterly delectable. More softly, she added, "_We_ are not going to ignore this."

Okay, so they were talking about it—more proof it wasn't his imagination. "Well, _we_ should."

"_We_ are not newbies, and we're not strangers, and we're not idiots, either."

_I might be_. "_We_ both didn't just get out of a relationship yesterday," he said rationally. "_We_ aren't both in a strange place emotionally." _There. That wasn't too harsh, was it?_

Juliet leaned back in the chair, sighing. "Carlton…"

He had to give her an out. She would thank him for it one day. "Listen, O'Hara. People interpret things differently based on the situations they're in. How a person feels about something—or… _someone_—can be affected by what's going on around… _her_." He paused, because the next part was hard. "And those feelings can change when the situation changes."

That was it. That was the closest he could come to asking her… to not hurt him. To let this pass the way it was surely meant to pass.

"How much time?" she asked abruptly.

"Come again?"

"How much time before you're willing to give it a chance?"

"O'Hara…"

Leaning closer and whispering so no one else could hear—and close enough for him to take in once again the lilac fragrance she wore—she pressed on. "I'm not going to argue the rebound point you're trying to make, and I don't even blame you for making it. What I am going to argue is this: you've worked with me for seven years. You _know_ me. Do you think I would have said what I said in the parking lot if it didn't come from a place that goes back a lot further than the twenty-four hours since my breakup?"

His heart skittered a little. More than a little.

Slowly she smiled, and he knew she knew she'd gotten to him. "You think about that awhile, Carlton. I'm going to be right over there." Getting up and smoothing her skirt, she went back to her desk, and left him disintegrating at his.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Zack Markham had not been to his jack-hammering construction job since the convenience store robbery-turned-murder. His supervisor said he'd been calling in daily, and only had one sick day left before termination. Juliet and Carlton were going to be at his job site the next morning to see if he showed up, if only to collect his last paycheck.

Minto Everedge was still playing the innocent in the event.

The store video footage showed three masked men entering, tossing the place, threatening Minto with the gun they were using to shoot up the property, demanding money, then knocking Minto upside the head and leaving him behind the counter. The window shattered during the 'gunplay,' and the footage almost, just almost, showed the collision at the corner when the driver of the Toyota was hit by the stray bullet.

"He keeps looking at the camera," Juliet observed.

Carlton, next to her, made a sound of assent. He smelled good. Driving her crazy, he was.

"He wants to be sure he looks innocent? I mean, he could just be looking at it hoping they were working."

"But see how he cringes before he gets hit," he said. "It's not like seeing a blow coming a second ahead of time. He's ready to be hit a long time before it happens."

There was no way to determine the identity of any of the masked men, except their heights; analysis showed the man who hit Minto was at least 6'2", and the others were more Minto's height of 5'9" or 5'10". However, driver's license info on Markham said he was 6'3, and that was good enough for an arrest warrant along with Snerfl's information.

(Their bet was a draw. Mercurochrome Snerfl's real name was Floyd Horace Townsend-Wolfe.)

Juliet stood slightly behind Carlton as they watched the video again, but she took the opportunity to imagine running her fingers through his black and silver hair, knowing it would be soft and feel wonderful, just like the rest of him.

As for how she knew he would feel wonderful, well, she had a couple of excellent hugs in her memory and lately an equally excellent dream-life.

It was Thursday. He'd been 'thinking' all week long and she'd let him be, because he hadn't officially closed the door and that was something rather significant for a reserved, often-burned man like Carlton Lassiter.

They'd also been busy with another homicide, and had to work with a team from Ventura PD, so alone time had been minimal. But Juliet could wait. Carlton was worth it.

She wasn't sure exactly when she'd accepted that her Tough Enough interest in him wasn't a fluke, and she knew there was about a _one_ percent chance she really was just on the rebound. But more than that, she didn't want to hurt him at all, ever—and she wouldn't. The voices had gone silent, perhaps waiting just like she was for him to make up his mind, but all were in agreement: hang in. Just hang in.

Her cell rang, and she stepped back to take the call.

"Juliet," said Gus.

"Gus, you have to stop."

"He's still not sleeping. He's still not watching TV. He's—"

"I know, I know," she said wearily. "He's not eating."

"Oh, he's eating. He's been to every churro place in a ten-mile radius." He hesitated. "Since Tuesday night. You don't even want to _know_ the taco count. He's getting bigger before my eyes, Juliet."

"Look, I don't mean to make light of whatever he's going through—or whatever you're going through—but do you understand? The relationship is over. I haven't even heard from him: does he know you've been in touch with me?"

"No. I've asked him to call you but he won't."

"Because it's over," she repeated. "And he knows it. Have you talked to Henry?"

"Shawn won't listen to him either."

"Well, what are you telling him exactly?"

"I'm telling him to call you and make it right!"

"Gus!"

"Well, I—"

"That is not you thinking about Shawn," she snapped. "That is you thinking about yourself. You admitted on Monday you knew our relationship was doomed. It's only going to hurt him for you to encourage him to try to get me back, because he's not going to get me back!"

Gus was silent, and after a second she realized Carlton had turned in the chair and was listening. Normally he wouldn't do such a thing; she knew that. But this… this involved him, didn't it?

"I'm sorry," Gus said after a moment. "You're right. He's my friend and I don't want him to be unhappy but you're right. Making him think he should try to get you back won't help anyone, least of all you."

Maintaining Carlton's deep blue gaze, she said quietly, "Thank you. Things didn't end the way either of us planned, but they ended, and that's all there is to it."

"Yeah. But…"

"What, Gus?"

"You got any tips?"

As if there were a rule book to understand Shawn Spencer. "Just… be patient, and slip some carrot sticks in his snack stash. Oh, and hide your credit card better."

"You know that's right," he muttered. "Thanks, Juliet."

She disconnected and pocketed her phone, and Carlton was still watching her, unsmiling but… not unreceptive.

Going closer, she settled one hand onto his shoulder lightly, and he didn't tense and he didn't move away. "I hope your interpretation skills got that one, Carlton."

"Me too," he murmured.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

_So you're insane, you know?_

_She's done with Spencer for good. She wants you. _

_You love her. What are you waiting for?_

He believed she was sincere, but…

_But what?_

He was lying on his sofa, drink in hand, shoes off, TV off, lights off. A flash of lightning from the impending storm illuminated the room briefly, and one of the trophies he'd gotten from Tough Enough cast a strange shadow on the floor from its perch on the dining room table.

Tough Enough.

That was it. That was frickin' _it_—she hadn't been tested yet.

Lassiter sat up, swinging his legs down to the floor. Yes, he knew she meant it when she said her relationship with Spencer was over. But it had only been a few days and she hadn't run into him yet. From what he got out of her end of that phone conversation, Gus was telling her Spencer was in a bad way.

And that meant Spencer would crack. It meant he would eventually come to her. Possibly begging.

Juliet had forgiven him so many times. She'd overlooked so many transgressions. Spencer had played her like a fine violin. How the hell would she be able resist the man in real pain? How could she possibly be strong enough to say no to him if he came crawling and pleading for a second chance, claiming as all men claim that he would change, he would do better, he just needed one more chance to prove himself please please please?

He downed the drink in another flash of lightning. Now he knew what to do: he had to put her and Spencer in the same room, alone. Then he'd know. Then they'd _all_ know.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet vanquished Judge Lawson in a screaming victory involving Nerf bats and greased inner tubes, threw Carlton down on a bed which conveniently appeared in the victory ring, ripped his shirt open and told him she was going to make love to him for seventeen hours straight, waited a few seconds for his breathless assent, and then—nothing. Damned clock radio went off, this time to a radio ad about erectile dysfunction, and she pulled the pillow to her face to scream a sobby little scream of frustration.

The next ad was for chronic depression. She felt depressed just listening to it.

_Shouldn't you be missing your ex? At least a little?_

She blinked at the ceiling, clearing away the sleep. She did miss Shawn a little. He could be a lot of fun.

_Should it be so easy for you to be going after Carlton so soon after Shawn?_

Well. She'd technically known Carlton longer, and she definitely knew him better. And the truth was, if her relationship with Shawn had been stronger—more between equals—then she'd be in a different place entirely. But after nearly a year with Shawn, she could honestly say she didn't know him any better than before, nothing had changed in their interaction, there was no sign of forward progress, there was never any compromise on his part, and the fun had been quickly outstripped by the exasperation of it all.

She would miss the fun, but she didn't yet.

Bits of the dream came back to torment her: the sight of Carlton's chest, the look in his so-blue eyes, the wailing sounds of the defeated judge (which they both ignored), the certainty that they would finally make love, and it would _be_ love, and it would be forever…

And now a commercial for eHarmony.

It was going to be a long, bad, day.

**. . . .**

**. . . **

Lassiter poured coffee, leaned over Juliet's shoulder long enough to see her cup was half-empty, and picked it up to top it off. She looked tired today, and when he set the newly-filled cup back down on her desk, she turned and gave him a look he hadn't seen before.

It was weary and predatory at the same time. "You remember I joked about dreams of Gus every night?"

"Yes," he said cautiously, suddenly afraid they hadn't been jokes.

"Well, they're not about Gus. They're about you." The look turned baleful. "You owe me, Carlton."

He froze. "Holy crap. I thought they were _good_ dreams."

Juliet stood up, far too close to him, and said very softly, and almost menacingly, "Oh, they're _good_. That's why you owe me."

Lassiter felt heat everywhere—_everywhere_—and realized his hand was trembling, which was a problem since it meant his mug was shaking.

"Detective Lassiter, could I have a few updates please?" Chief Vick was breezing past, and Lassiter turned with undue speed to follow her into her office.

He had managed to shove most of the illicit imagery aside by the time he took the chair in front of her desk. She asked first for an update on the new homicide, which he gave rapidly, to her satisfaction.

"And what about the gas station case?"

"We went to Zack Markham's workplace this morning but he called in again. We asked his supervisor to tell him to come pick up his check, but Markham said he couldn't get there before Monday morning."

Vick's eyebrows were up. "And?"

"We have no idea where he is, Chief, and no one's talking. We don't know who his accomplices are, and Everedge is keeping quiet. Markham has to come out of hiding eventually—this was only supposed to be a robbery so he can't have had long-term hideout plans—but in the meantime, we've got nothing."

"Detective Lassiter, I can't say I like the sound of this. I have the Mayor on my back every day and you're telling me it comes down to waiting for Markham to show up for a paycheck?"

He readied himself. "I have one other suggestion, but, ah, it requires your involvement."

She sat down, skeptical already.

"I think we should call in Psych."

Vick frowned. "You don't need my involvement to call in Psych, though I am surprised to hear _you_ suggest it."

So was he. "I think if we set Spencer loose on Minto Everedge, he might be able to get something out of him."

She waited a moment for more and then asked impatiently, "So why haven't you called him in already? Honestly, Lassiter—"

"Chief." He folded his hands in his lap, trying to seem impartial and collected. "It's not really my place to say this, but Spencer and O'Hara broke up last weekend."

"Oh…" Vick's expression cleared as she understood the issue.

"So, given my history with him, it's going to seem pretty weird to O'Hara if _I'm_ the one who calls Psych in for the first time. I think if it comes from you, from the top, it'll just be business."

That, and if Juliet figured out his plan, she'd gut-punch him. Repeatedly.

It didn't take her long to make up her mind. "All right. Come on. I need more coffee anyway." She led the way out of her office, Lassiter trailing behind with trepidation (he didn't want to hurt Juliet, but if the prospect of seeing Spencer _could_ hurt her, then he was right, and they both needed to know that).

Vick's acting skills were excellent. She asked for more details of the Everedge case as they stood behind Juliet's chair, and Juliet turned to answer a few of the questions. Lassiter spared her a glance; the baleful had gone from her eyes and she seemed back to 'normal.'

"You know," Vick mused, "seems like we could use Psych's help on this one."

Juliet immediately said, "Oh, no, Chief, I think we've got it. We'll pick up Markham on Monday and in the meantime we'll keep at Everedge until—"

Vick cut her off smoothly. "Until the mayor replaces me? With, I don't know, McNab? Because it won't be one of you two. I'll make sure of that." She smiled.

Lassiter actually believed her. Another glance at Juliet told him she believed it too.

"Yes, Chief." Her voice was small and cool.

_Crap. _

Vick strolled away humming, and Lassiter stood his ground to face his partner.

She was back to baleful, but at least Vick was the enemy now. "Well, _I'm_ not making the call."

"I'll do it," he said at once. "That way we can both suffer."

A faint smile before she turned away.

_Okay, it doesn't have to be bad. She was just caught off guard. Anyone would be a bit uneasy about the first encounter with a new ex._

At his desk, he paused to ask himself one more time whether he should be doing this.

Then he called the Psych office anyway.

Spencer himself answered. "Lassie! Sorry, I'm not here right now."

"Sounds like you are. I'm calling, against my will, because Vick wants you in on a case."

"No can do," he said briskly. "I'm really not here."

"Chief Vick," Lassiter repeated. "Wants you on a case."

"We can't take 'em all, Lassie. We're busy people. Big case loads."

_Big load of _something_, anyway_. "It's ten a.m. At this hour, Guster's at his real job and you're just waking up. You're not busy, you're just weird."

"Don't fence me in, man; I can be both. Nice talking to you, though—"

"Spencer!" he said with force, and noted Juliet looking across the wide hall at him. "Unless I'm very much mistaken, the bulk of Psych's income comes from police-issued cases. You start saying no to work, there won't be any work at all. You get it?"

Spencer paused a moment. "That, my good man, is a bluff, because it's not _your_ call whether I get hired or not."

"You're right. It's not. It's Vick's call. And it's one thing to piss _me_ off, Spencer, but right now Vick's got the mayor on her ass about this case, so if you piss _her_ off, you're risking a lot more than merely causing me to have an aneurysm."

Pause. Pause. Pause.

Heavy sigh. "What is it, the gas station thing?"

_Sold_. "Yes. We'll get the weakest link down here and you can come do your mumbo-voodoo-mental whammy thing on him."

"Fine. Just tell me when to be there."

"This afternoon. I'll call you with the time." He disconnected, and nodded at the inquisitive Juliet, who turned back to her work looking a touch uneasy.

It made him a touch uneasy too.

He'd much rather think about his dream from last night—Juliet in his shower, washing him gently and kissing him everywhere and oh holy hell in a hand basket, if she'd really been having dreams like that about _him_ then… he felt himself flood with heat and no doubt a rich red color.

No, this was good. It was more indication that he needed to be sure that _she_ was sure. That Spencer couldn't get to her anymore.

And it had been a long time since he'd hoped for anything as much as he hoped for that.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	7. Chapter 7: Minto, The Freshmaker

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

**. . . .**

**. . . **

Juliet managed to talk Carlton into having lunch at one of their favorite places—or rather, a place which had _been_ one of their favorites before she'd become A Bad Friend. She could tell he was reluctant to be alone with her, but he was going to have to learn, especially if he decided to tell her "hands off" for good.

He was so unutterably attractive to her now. Sitting across from him at the table, unable to _not_ look into his vivid blue eyes, it was just about all she could do to stop from reaching out and touching his hand, let alone keep her feet on her side of the table.

_You should be planning how to deal with seeing Shawn._

_(… mental shrug…)_

_That_ was going to go however it went, and everything depended on how Shawn decided to behave toward her. She wasn't going to take being treated condescendingly, if that was the choice he made. (Her corresponding response would be a fist to the nose.)

"Carlton," she said gently. "I have a question."

One dark brow went up. "Personal?"

"Yes."

Carlton shifted, and took a deep breath. "Okay."

"I've been assuming all week that you're unsure about me because you think it's too soon after Shawn. But… given how I had to beg you to come to lunch with me, I can't help but wondering if maybe you've decided you… well, that you don't want me at all. That I'm not 'your type.' Or that you can't get past the partner issue."

His blue eyes focused on her with the precision of a laser beam. Very carefully, and easing back into the booth as if he feared she might strike, he said, "If you think I'm not interested in you, then you must also think Donald Trump has great hair."

For a moment she stared back, and then she burst into relieved laughter, earning a small smile in return as he oh-so-slightly relaxed.

"It's the rebound issue," he assured her. "A few years ago it would have been the partnership problem, but I've gotten to a point in my career where I don't want the same things I once did."

"Like being Chief?"

Carlton shook his head. "Vick spends her days immersed in paperwork and meetings. I'd rather be solving actual cases or out in the field. Maybe I'll want it again when I'm ready to slow down, but it won't be any time soon." He adjusted his placemat and added dryly, "Although I wouldn't mind a little more unilateral authority over which consultants get hired and when."

Juliet grinned. "I hear that. And I'm glad you don't want to move up as much as you did before. You'd be a good Chief, but you'd hate it, and it'd be a shame for a fine detective like you to be anchored to a desk."

He blushed a little, and met her gaze with a smile. "Thanks."

"Plus I'd miss you like crazy. You've spoiled me for other partners, you know."

"Oh, come on. You can do a hell of a lot better than a crabby, paranoid coffee-swilling—"

She cut him off. "No, I can't. And I don't want to. So be warned, Carlton: even if you decide you don't want to have anything to do with me personally, I'll chain myself to your leg before I let you partner up with anyone else."

The blush deepened, and he took a deep swig of his ice water. "Okay. I hear you. And… ditto."

Those words were sweet because they were from him, she thought with a private smile.

Lunch arrived and they tucked in, and part-way through her turkey asiago wrap, she said, "In case you were wondering, I've always been interested in you."

The potato chip in his hand snapped in two and his eyes grew wide. "What?"

"In varying degrees over the years. I always thought you were…" She searched for the right words, and they came to her immediately. "An undiscovered treasure."

This silenced him completely. He just stared, a deep red now, his blue eyes one-quarter panicked and three-quarters stunned.

Juliet nudged his ice water closer. "Remember to breathe."

Instead he accidentally knocked the water glass over, and while fussing with napkins and cleanup he more or less missed the fact that she crossed to his side of the booth to help, and as he bent forward to wipe up the last of the water, she leaned in and kissed his cheek.

Carlton froze.

She kissed his temple.

"Juliet," he breathed.

She curled her fingers around his jaw and touched his earlobe with the very tip of her tongue, her own heart racing at how audacious this was—but she simply couldn't resist him, not this close to his warmth, his scent, his Carlton-ness.

He shivered and whispered, "Please. Not here. Not…"

Juliet thought later that the hardest thing she'd done in a long damn time was go back to her side of the booth and resume eating her turkey asiago wrap.

"Dear God." His voice was shaky.

She should have apologized. Did she? Nope.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Lassiter didn't drink during the workday, but somehow he knew a large tumbler of Scotch would be just the ticket to take the edge off lunch.

The woman was trying to kill him.

If he'd turned his head and kissed her, they would have been tossed out of the restaurant in short order, clothes tossed out right after them, because it wouldn't have been one kiss, it wouldn't have stopped there, and it would still be going on now.

If there was enough time, he'd take a cold shower in the locker room downstairs.

But Minto Everedge was coming in at 2:00 and he had to be an actual functioning cop sans ice water to cool off his… _everything_.

Juliet had been very well-behaved after her attack on his hormones, even in the car, and he was grateful, but then she didn't understand exactly how close she'd been to requiring a new outfit, given what he would have done to the skirt and blouse she was wearing now.

_Pull yourself together, Lassiter._

He checked his watch when McNab called his desk to say Everedge had arrived. Spencer wasn't here, but he was _counting_ on that one's tardiness.

Lassiter went to Juliet's desk—cautious because she might still do something to make him lose control, like smile or breathe or blink—and told her he was going down to Interrogation B to start rattling Everedge's cage.

Everedge was a roly-poly young man, pudgy in a way suggesting his body hadn't decided precisely how to arrange the pounds. Lassiter was curious about his first name, but after the Snerfl incident, wasn't prepared to ask.

"Minto Everedge," he said briskly, dropping the file on the table and seating himself as he opened it. "I'm sure you remember me."

"Of course I remember you," he said huffily. "You've only interrogated me, like, ten times."

"Three," Lassiter corrected, "but since your memory's so iffy about other matters, I thought I'd make sure."

Everedge gave him a glare. "My memory isn't iffy. I've told you everything I know about the robbery. They came in, they wrecked the place, they demanded money, they hit me, they left."

"You shuffle."

He was taken aback. "What?"

"You shuffle, and Zack Markham yells at you for it."

"How do you—I do _not_ shuffle, and what the hell's that got to do with anything?"

Lassiter closed the folder with a snap. "In a few minutes one of our consultants is coming in here to talk to you, but at this point, I really don't care whether you tell him anything or not. I simply need you to understand the following things. Ready?"

Glowering but uncertain, Everedge nodded.

"First, we know Zack Markham is the shooter. In fact, he's our prime suspect. We also know no one was supposed to get hurt. But now someone's dead, so he's gone to ground. Here's the thing, Minto: we don't _stop_ looking for murderers. He's not going to get far on the four hundred bucks he got from the robbery, we've frozen his bank account, he's lost his job, and he's in limbo." Lassiter leaned forward and gave Everedge a very cold smile. "Forever, or until we catch him, or until you wise up and tell us what we want to know."

"I don't know anything." The man's voice was small.

"Here's the second thing. _You're_ the bridge which leads to Markham. You. And because—if you'll remember what I said ten seconds ago—we _don't_ stop looking for murderers, that means we don't stop looking at you." Lassiter smiled again, and this one he particularly enjoyed. "Because you're an accessory, you see. And we will never lose interest in you, Minto. Ever. I will personally spearhead the investigation for as long as it takes to get you to talk. I'll be at your workplace looking for clues. I'll be in your apartment building talking to your neighbors. I'll be mentioning to everyone who might be able to give me even the _tiniest_ bit of information that you're an accessory to murder."

"That's harassment," Everedge said shakily.

"No, it's not. It's investigation." He leaned back in the chair, dropping the smile. "You understand what I'm saying to you? Markham's on the run, forever. And even if you hole up in your apartment, you're going to feel like you're on the run too, because until you cooperate with us, your life is mine." He got up, scraping the chair against the concrete floor abruptly and making Everedge jump. "Have a nice chat with the consultant."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet held the door open for Carlton to come into Observation B. "What was that all about?"

"What do you mean? That was my standard—"

"No, I mean the timing. You practically told him not to bother cooperating with Shawn."

Carlton glanced past her to the equally curious Chief Vick, who had come down with Juliet. He shrugged. "Spencer does okay when people don't talk. Remember how he faked his way through the case with the damn cat? I just wanted to give our boy Minto something to think about. Besides, Spencer's going to seem like a teddy bear after me, right? _So_ much easier to confess to."

"But then…" She frowned. "You'd be… well, Shawn will take the credit."

"If he gets him to talk, he deserves the credit." He was watching the exceedingly nervous Minto through the glass.

"I don't understand this, Carlton."

"What's to understand? I want this case solved. An innocent man died last week and I'll be damned if I'm going to let a jack-hammerer and a shuffler keep his murder from being solved."

"Works for me," Vick commented. "The mayor, too."

Juliet could buy it… almost. Maybe she'd thrown him off his game at the restaurant.

She hid another private smile as she remembered the warmth of his cheek, his sharp intake of breath when her tongue hit his earlobe, and her absolute certainty that if the timing had been better, they'd be in bed right now.

McNab opened the door to let Shawn in.

Vick said, "Mr. Spencer, finally. Are we ready?"

_I am_, Juliet thought. Shawn met her gaze briefly and nodded. He did look a bit puffier than he had a week ago, and tired, but if he was pining, he hid it well.

"Let's do this." He went back out into the hall, and the three of them watched him enter the Interrogation room to sit with Minto Everedge, who was sweating and fanning himself ineffectively.

"So, Minto of the very cool—one might even say _minty_—name, _I_ am Shawn Spencer, psychic for the SBPD. I'm here to—"

"I confess!" Everedge shouted. He stood up, the chair falling backwards, and shouted again: "I confess! Zack did it! He's hiding on his cousin's farm in Boise! I confess!"

Shawn gaped at him.

In the Observation room, Juliet and Karen Vick laughed out loud, and Carlton downright smirked.

"Looks like you warmed Everedge up pretty well, Detective." Vick was grinning. "Get it in writing before he changes his mind about a lawyer."

Shawn, somewhat dazed, came back to Observation, mumbling something to Vick as she passed him. "What the hell happened before I got here?"

"Guess you're just that good, Spencer," Carlton said briskly. "Thanks for coming in." He strode out to finish up with Everedge, and that left Juliet alone with a stunned Shawn.

Pause. Semi-awkward after Shawn regained his composure and realized they were the only ones in the room.

"Hey Jules," he said, hands in his pockets.

"Hi." She wasn't going to ask him how he was doing.

"Get that medical degree yet?"

"Any day now. You finish up with lumberjack school?"

"Dull axe," he said apologetically, and smiled.

Well, at least they could joke. Juliet was content with that.

He came a little bit closer, hands deeper in his pockets as he studied the floor for a moment. "I, um, think you should know."

"Know what?" Five bucks to her vacation fund said it would be another joke.

He looked up, full at her, and his hazel eyes were uncertain. "I'm pretty sure I made a big mistake on Sunday."

_Oh, hell. _She had to nip _that_ in the bud fast. "Actually, Shawn, I'm pretty sure you didn't."

"Hear me out, Jules. Please. I was an idiot. You're amazing and I was stupid to even imply—"

Juliet held up a hand. "Shawn, stop. You were _right_ to break it off."

Shawn faltered. "It doesn't feel right."

"It will, because you realized I'm not what you need in a girlfriend."

"You're _exactly_ what I need," he protested.

"No, I'm not. You need someone more suited to your way of life, to your way of thinking, and I'm not her. From how I organize my apartment to the fact that I'm a cop, I'm different from you in every way."

"Opposites can work." His voice was soft. "Look at you and Lassie."

Juliet hesitated. _Tread carefully here._ "It's not how we're opposite that makes it work. It's how we're the same."

He couldn't see it anyway. "How are you in any way the same other than being cops?"

_Careful_… "We both value truth. Honesty. Sticking to a job until it's done. The fine print. The tedium of what we do, Shawn—we even value that."

Shawn frowned. "_I_ value truth. _I_ value honesty."

Fortunately he stopped there or she'd have had to laugh (as far as he went was bad enough), but since he'd given her the opening, she went for it. "Are you psychic?"

His expression shuttered for the briefest of moments. "You know I am. You stood in that room while Lassie polygraphed me."

"People fool polygraphs all the time, and you know what else Carlton and I have in common? We use people's full names. We don't mock them to make ourselves feel superior."

Shawn had the grace to look embarrassed. "Jules, look. It's just a thing. It doesn't even mean anything anymore. He likes it."

"He doesn't like it and he never has, and you know it, and that's why you keep doing it. Are you psychic?"

"Yes, and what's that got to do with us?"

Juliet looked at this man who'd been her significant other for a year and felt they were as much strangers as when they'd first met. Honesty, forthrightness—foreign concepts to him, but crucial to her, and how had she done without them for so long? "Your father taught you a lot of tricks when you were young, and I'd lay down money that passing a polygraph was one of them."

He chose to be affronted. "Juliet, when did a conversation about us getting back together turn into a quiz about my abilities?"

_Avoidance is a lie._ Yet Juliet was surprised to realize she was… calm. "We're not getting back together, Shawn. You made the right choice to break up. We're just too different." She touched his arm lightly, smiled as if their friendship was fully reparable, and told him she'd see him around.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Lassiter passed Everedge off to McNab to take his full statement, with naming the exact whereabouts of Zack Markham paramount, and busied himself with the next steps so as not to think about the conversation Juliet was having with Spencer down in the room he had so hastily vacated.

He could very well be in trouble—not that she'd think he set it up, but that she might merely want to know why he'd left her alone with her ex.

_Who are you kidding? You don't care if you're in trouble or not. You want to know whether the silver-tongued Spencer is working his verbal magic on her._

Well, yeah.

Because there was no word to describe how much it would suck if Spencer was successful.

_Why are you so sure he's trying to get her back?_

Because she's Juliet?

_Fair enough._

He sighed profoundly, wishing for that tumbler of Scotch.

Juliet appeared at his elbow, startling him and then making him feel wickedly warm with only her smile. "You know what I think?"

_Is it X-rated? Because right now I…_

"I think I owe you a huge apology for doubting you all these years when you said Shawn wasn't psychic."

Lassiter looked up at her, surprised. "Did he just admit he wasn't? Because I can get two arrest warrants, you know."

"Of course he didn't. But it seems so obvious now."

"_Now_? _Now_ it seems obvious?"

Juliet laughed. "Go easy on me. I was young and impressionable when I got here."

"I've never been either young or impressionable," he muttered, "but okay, I'll cut you some slack. Spencer's a master of deceit."

She was still smiling at him. "I know. But now I know he's just a guy behind a curtain, and there's no unseeing that."

There must have been some hint of his relief in his expression, because she touched his shoulder and added softly, "I told you I wasn't on the rebound."

"Come over for dinner tonight," he said, flummoxing himself as the words came out.

Her dark blue gaze immediately fixed on his, and she said yes without hesitation.

"I'll cook. I do a pretty good pasta primavera."

"I'll bring wine. You sure about this?"

"Eight o'clock," he said, stronger now. "Dinner and talk."

Juliet smiled benignly. "I'll take what I can get."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

She meant what she'd said: she would take what she could get. Baby steps if necessary, whatever it took to make him see she wasn't going anywhere.

Nonetheless, she wore a rose-colored blouse she knew he liked, a light cologne he'd once complimented (and was then terribly embarrassed about for hours), and star-shaped earrings he'd given her one Christmas with a mumble about hoping she liked them.

Brushing out her hair and leaving it down, she set out for his place with a thousand illicit images in her head and no sense that any of them were premature: this was the thing to do, and he was the man she was meant for.

Carlton opened the door, blue eyes lit with warmth she was unbearably delighted to see. He'd changed into a black tee and worn jeans and he looked fantastic and she found it difficult to settle for a kiss to his cheek—let alone his brief warm kiss to hers.

"Hi," he murmured, taking the wine and her hand and leading her to the dining table. The pasta awaited, along with salad and bread, and it was all delicious and filling and intimate even though all they talked about was Snerfl and Everedge and the warrant to pick up Markham, which Boise authorities were doing first thing in the morning.

She helped carry dishes into the kitchen over his protests, helped put everything away, and stood with him against the counter as he refilled her wine glass and his. "You're so damn beautiful," he said.

Juliet knew she was blushing. "Thank you."

"I feel like I'm getting away with something saying so."

"Take all the liberties you want. I myself think _you're_ startlingly attractive."

"Startlingly?" He was amused.

"As in, I'm startled by how attractive I find you every time I look at you."

It wasn't just _her_ wine glass trembling.

He set his on the counter. "Time for that talk, I guess."

For a moment she felt a stab of fear: he was throwing her out.

But he came closer, took her glass away, and then stroked her arm gently from shoulder to wrist. "I'm a permanent kind of guy, Juliet."

She squeezed his hand when he clasped hers. "I'm glad."

"It means I don't do flings. I'm hard to get rid of." Wry smile. "Ask Victoria."

"I wouldn't waste my time talking to someone dumb enough to throw you away," she told him, and he gripped her hand harder.

She reached out—unable to stop herself—and touched his chest with one finger, and then two, and then the palm of her hand, pressing to his warmth through the t-shirt and slowly, slowly sliding her hand down from sternum to just above his navel.

The twin sensations of his heartbeat and the tensing of his muscles under her touch were powerful, and she drew in a breath as if it all might break to pieces at any second.

Carlton's voice was husky. "Is this going to turn out to be a dream?"

Juliet shook her head, feeling dreamlike all the same.

He put his hand over hers, drawing it back up to his heart, and lowered his head, his mouth only an inch away from hers and his blue eyes wide yet unreadable.

She wanted to get lost in them, forever, because they were the way home.

"Carlton," she began, but what words would do?

He sighed and moved closer, and finally the kiss was born.

Sweet and salty, need and desire, heat and acceptance: his mouth was firm and hungry and she opened hers to him at once, wanting full connection as soon as possible. To _know_ him, after so long wondering in the private dark of night.

The knowing was better than the imagining: she loved the taste of him, the feel of him, the heat of him.

Carlton's hand slipped into her hair, the other curving around her back and pulling her closer still to his warm body.

He wasn't pushing, and neither was she, but the kiss wanted to expand. It wanted to take over. It was alive now and not going away without encompassing everything which could _be_ between them.

Juliet circled his waist with her arms and breathed him in while kissing him, and gravity shifted as Carlton guided her over to the sofa, where they lay together entwined and still kissing, exploring, learning.

She opened her eyes to look into his and found what she wanted there: this was more than hormones, and completely right. She whispered, "I'm yours," against his lips and he sighed, deeply and from the heart, and covered her mouth with a searing, loving kiss which made the previous kisses pale in comparison.

His hands were so warm on her skin after he slipped her blouse off her shoulders, and his lips skimmed her throat and chest and down to the line where her bra began.

When he tugged the fabric down and suckled her nipple she thought she would die, and she worked her leg between his, her thigh pressing against his obvious arousal.

She wanted his tee off and slipped her hands underneath it, pulling up, and they separated only long enough for him to take it off while she unhooked her bra.

But bare chest to bare chest, they only clung to each other and kissed ardently again, content for the moment with the friction between them. The hair of his chest tantalized her skin—and she could not remain still now; she had to keep undulating with want—and was erotic beyond measure, especially with his tongue still dancing against hers.

"I've _been_ yours," he said, and showed her.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	8. Chapter 8: And The Winners Are

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

**. . . .**

**. . . **

_**[M territory ahead, as we bring this saga to a close. Note to Lawson227: your simple little story suggestion of a sports-competition between Lassiter and Shawn didn't go at all how I thought it would. Hope you don't mind toooo awfully much!]**_

**. . . .**

**. . . **

Lassiter felt, as the night wore on, that he was worshipping Juliet's body. It seemed apt; she was certainly a goddess on earth so far as he was concerned.

The skin of her flat stomach was silky smooth, and he spent a long time kissing and nuzzling her there, up to the underside of her breasts and down just past her navel. He kept the palms of his hands on her erect nipples, kneading, and with each of her undulations against him he let his lips travel more south on her abdomen… down finally to where she most wanted him, and where he most wanted to be.

Touching and tasting this woman after years of wanting her was simply heaven. Each little sigh, each anxious jerk of her body under him, was celestially marvelous.

To know the secret of her intimate heat and be the one to make her cry out in pleasure—_his_ name, no less—that was everything.

"Please, Carlton," she begged. "I need you."

She'd already had him twice tonight but he had years of longing to make up for, and he was in no hurry now, because now she was his.

Still, he could not refuse her, and drew himself back up on top of her, her legs parting under him to allow—to _demand_—entrance. Juliet's thighs clamped around his, and her arms were like steel holding him closer and closer as they moved together. So deep, and not deep enough: he couldn't help but feel he must ravish her totally, and the magnetic pull of her body around him was intense and exquisite.

He worked one hand between them to be very sure she had the utmost pleasure, and her eyes closed as she reached orgasm. The feeling of her spasms around him returned the utmost pleasure to him and sent them into oblivion together.

Collapsed against her soon after, he almost didn't have the strength to roll off, but then she didn't seem to want him to.

Keeping her ankles locked around his calves and her arms around his neck, Juliet kissed his jaw and throat and ear and licked his lips until he was drawn inexorably back into the miasma of desire.

"I can't get enough of you," she whispered.

Lassiter kissed her deeply, as if it were the first time, feeling her still clenching around him and wondering how in the hell she was arousing him again, before he'd even recovered, let alone withdrawn fully.

But downtime was inevitable, and he simply went on kissing her, more slowly, more sensually, and when she needed still more he gave it to her with his mouth and fingers, not minding at all that she was insatiable, because psychologically he knew he was too when it came to her.

Finally, trembling with aftershocks, they simply lay together in his bed, hands linked, letting the breeze from the window cool them off.

He wanted to tell her he loved her. In so many words.

But somehow he thought she knew.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet wanted to tell Carlton she loved him. In so many words.

But he wouldn't believe it, not yet. It was one thing to admit attraction and act on it, but he wasn't built to trust: he knew she _wanted_ him but he would not believe so soon that she _loved_ him.

She was in his kitchen at dawn, sipping coffee and wearing the t-shirt he'd had on last night. He was still in bed, deeply asleep, and as much as she wanted to wake him in an entirely lascivious manner, she'd let him rest… besides, more stamina for later, right?

She shivered involuntarily, all parts of her body remembering all parts of his. His lean strength, his so-very-talented hands and mouth and dear God that tongue: the sheer _heat_ of Carlton Lassiter moving on her body.

Dressed and in Detective Lassiter mode he gave off a vibe that he'd be cool to the touch. Fast-moving, easily annoyed, remote.

But in bed, Lordy, the man was fire. Pure fire. Juliet let out a trembling sigh, because she wanted him again. On her, inside her, all around her.

Forever.

Padding back to the bedroom, mug in hand, she leaned in the doorway and watched him. The sheet was off, and she admired his long legs and furred chest and the rather nice part of him in between, a part she'd gotten to know very well during the night.

A part she'd like to know even better.

Restless with fresh desire, Juliet decided there was no better way to wake a man than with what she suddenly had in mind. Setting the mug on the dresser, she crossed to the bed and carefully climbed up beside him, lightly stroking his thighs and stomach and gradually, as he remained asleep—long lashes dark against his cheek—she moved her hand closer to his more sensitive anatomy, which immediately responded to her touch.

"Juliet," he mumbled. "It _is_ Juliet, right?"

She laughed and kept stroking. "So many women, so little time."

"Only one woman, and all the time in the world," he corrected, opened his ever-magnificent blue eyes, and urged her to straddle him. "You have a shirt on."

"Sorry," she said as she shucked it off. "Better?"

"Yes." He pulled her to him and nuzzled her breasts, and she was half-lost already. "Now I have breakfast."

Juliet couldn't help but laugh, and the light in his eyes was part amusement, part lust. "You can have it all."

"Mmm, smorgasbord," he growled, yanking her closer, and just like that her arousal turned into insistent do-me-_now_-dammit greed.

He flipped her onto her back and had at her and that was exactly what she wanted: total, immediate, deep, relentless connection.

She heard herself almost shrieking his name, but the pleasure went on and on and decimated the bedcovers. She was half off the mattress and clinging to him for dear life by the time it was over, and their ragged breathing had probably blown a few rainforest butterflies right over into the desert.

Carlton tugged her back onto the mattress fully, falling beside her in a wreck of his own. "Tough enough," he mumbled. "Damn straight I am."

Juliet laughed until tears came to her eyes.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Monday morning, Lassiter met up with Juliet at the coffee bar. "Good morning, Detective O'Hara."

"Good morning, Detective Lassiter." She smiled and adjusted her collar.

He followed her gaze and sighed. "Sorry about that."

"I'm not." She turned so no one else could see and caressed the hickey where her throat met her shoulder, then pulled the collar up tight again with a pleasing blush. "I don't mind you marking all the places you've been."

Lassiter swallowed. "Dammit, Juliet, we've had eight minutes of sleep in two days and washed the sheets three times. All sets. We ran out of coffee yesterday afternoon and didn't see daylight until an hour ago. But you still…"

He stopped, because Juliet was smiling at him in a very knowing way.

"But I still want you," she whispered. "And that's not going to change any time soon."

Heat rose in all sorts of places on his body, and he knocked back a slug of coffee not caring that it was really a bit too hot for that.

She laughed delightedly. "Does this mean you feel the same way?"

"Is Mercurochrome Snerfl a dumbass name?"

Before she could answer, McNab came down the hallway carrying something in a large frame, beaming. "Here's the Tough Enough plaque, everyone. We had the most wins this year!"

Chief Vick stepped out of her office to gather with the others as McNab set the plaque on the dry-erase board for all to see.

"Very nice work, people," she said admiringly. "Look at all those fine officers of mine."

The winners' names were in alphabetical order, but Lassiter looked for O'Hara's first, feeling pride that his partner, friend and lover had done so well for herself and the department. She, he noted, was eyeing his name, with a possessive expression on her lovely face.

"Even the consultants," Vick went on, and he spotted Spencer's name on the right. Well, he'd had the second-place for the chin-up bar round, so sure. Why not? He could afford to be magnanimous at this point.

There was oohing and ahhing and tale-telling and general puffed-up-ness before Vick encouraged them all to get back to work while McNab found a proper place to hang the plaque.

Lassiter and Juliet remained at the board, sipping their respective coffees.

"I don't think I'm going to compete next time," she commented.

"Really? Why?"

"Well, for one thing, how on earth could I top everything from this year?"

"There are still more first place prizes to win, O'Hara, and you're just entering your prime. I should stay out, though. Getting too old for this." Never mind that his _current_ aches and pains had _nothing_ to do with Tough Enough.

She scoffed. "What the hell ever, studmuffin. I had way too much fun watching you this year and fully expect you to be just as hot two years from now."

Laughing mid-swallow earned him a few spots of coffee on his tie. He went back to his desk to clean up, and after she followed, he said, "Uh, I expect _you_ to be hot then too. Why deprive me of the same scenery?"

Juliet gave him an innocent look which he didn't believe for one second. "But I'll have let myself go by then."

"Is that so?" He sat in his chair, grinning at her; this ought to be good.

Still innocent, she explained, "Isn't that what all women do after they find true love?"

_Hmmmm… come back, heartbeat. Come back._

"Oh no, wait," Juliet went on, coming around to sit in the chair by his desk and leaning forward so only he could hear. "That's only if she _marries_ him."

Lassiter stared at her, trying to make sense of these words, trying to make them fit into his still inherently pessimistic view of his chances with any woman, let alone this one, even after a weekend of carnal bliss.

Dropping the smile, she spoke even more quietly. "A lot's happened in the last week. We both went into Tough Enough with expectations which were totally laughed at by Fate, and the way things turned out is completely foreign to what we _thought_ we knew but at the same time, they're completely and perfectly as they should be."

They were, but he couldn't speak to agree.

"I wanted to tell you this all weekend long but I couldn't because I didn't think you'd believe me, but you know what? You don't _have_ to believe me, because it's true whether you do or not. I'm just going to say it and hope that soon you'll _know_ it's true, and accept it, and marry me. Okay? I love you, Carlton. I think I always have, in the back of my heart, and it took this Tough Enough crap to make me see how things really are. I _love_ you."

She sat back in the chair and gazed at him with… with _love_… actual love, in the depths of her dark-blue eyes.

"Oh my God," he whispered.

Juliet smiled gently.

He leaned forward, clasping her hand where it lay in her lap, and he didn't give a rat's ass who saw. "Did Spencer try to get you back on Friday?"

"Yes."

"And you said no?"

"Of course."

"He'll try again."

"So? I'll keep telling him no until the day _you_ let me tell him 'no and by the way I'm taken.'"

Another jolt to the heart. "O'Hara… don't you doubt for one second that I… that I'm… dammit, I love you too. But I can't—you can't… I can't lose you if he comes around trying to wear you down. You have to be su—"

Juliet leaned in and kissed him. There. At his desk. In the station. With people around.

_Yes._

"I'm sure enough to do that _here_, Carlton."

He was slack-jawed with wonder.

"Excuse me, detectives," Chief Vick said pleasantly, having materialized in her Chiefly way just behind Juliet's chair. "Could you tell me what's going on? Or more accurately, why it's going on in my station?"

Lassiter said blankly, "She loves me."

Juliet said, "I do. And I had to convince him, Chief. You know what a stubborn ass he can be." She smiled as if it all made sense.

Vick stared at them both. "I see." Pause. "No, actually, I don't see." Another pause, another stare. "On the other hand, you know what? I _do_ see. But I don't want to see it _here_. See?"

"Understood," Juliet said sheepishly.

Lassiter was still out of it.

Vick waved her hand in front of his face. "When he comes out of his trance, O'Hara, tell him that while you two do seem to be oddly well-suited for each other, and I'm surprisingly happy for you, I trust you will never again suck face in the middle of the bullpen, nor make it a problem for me that my top two detectives have crossed a professional line into dangerous employment territory. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Chief." Juliet nudged Lassiter's knee, and he made some sound of assent, enough to satisfy Vick.

"Now if you don't mind, could you possibly get back to work? Zack Markham's being delivered today and I would really like it if the paperwork didn't get filled out with little hearts dotting the Is and Cupid's arrows crossing the Ts. Okay?" She didn't wait for agreement, but strode off shaking her head and muttering.

He found his voice, still staring at his lovely partner. "Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, I'll marry you and no, I don't even care if you go to pot."

Her smile was slow and wicked. "Because?"

"Because I love you, Juliet O'Hara, and I want you to be mine in every way there is." His heart was racing but it was joy now, with no fear anywhere on the horizon.

Juliet beamed. "Okay, then." She got up, and for a second he thought maybe she was as unsteady as he felt. "Uh, maybe tonight we should actually _sleep_."

He stood up too, lightheaded for other reasons, but stopped short of touching her because he could feel Vick's glare all the way from her office. "Well, we can _try_."

"Hey, I'm tough enough if you are," she said lightly.

Lassiter grinned. "You're the toughest girl I know. Also the sexiest."

Juliet sighed. "Meet me in Observation in five for a quick make-out session?"

"Three," he countered.

"Deal." She headed away, but turned back to add with a satisfied smile, "Partner."

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